


So Comes Snow After Fire

by CidyKitty



Series: So Comes Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon Targaryen - Freeform, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Betrayal, Dragons, Drama, F/M, Family, Family Secrets, Female Jon Snow, Gen, Historical Sexism, Jealousy, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jousts, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Past Incest, Plotting, Romance, Slow Burn, Smart Girls, There's More But I Don't Have Them All Right Now, Tourneys, courting, fem! jon snow, strong female character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CidyKitty/pseuds/CidyKitty
Summary: "Visenya.” The nurse said. She approached Ned with the cotton fabric that had been covering the feather pillow. Ned took it from her and gently covered the babe, wrapping her in it, covering her bottom and securing her to his chest with an arm. This child was his responsibility, his to care for, his to love, the last part of his sister that walked this earth.“No.” He corrected the midwife who was staring at him, he could feel Howland’s eyes on him as well.“Lyliana.” Ned cleared his throat, feeling moisture build up in his eyes. Feeling like the last year was going to erupt from his eyes like a waterfall, one warm salty tear hit the babe’s cheeks from where she was swaddled, he let them come, let them fall from his long nose and land on the babe who cooed at him with wide eyes.“She is my daughter, her name will be Lyliana.”The Dragon Lives.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Jon Snow, Jon Arryn/Lysa Tully Arryn, Ned Stark/Catelyn Tully, Oberyn Martell/Jon Snow, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Selyse Baratheon/Stannis Baratheon
Series: So Comes Snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751356
Comments: 239
Kudos: 1109





	1. So Comes Snow

_“So comes snow after fire, and even Dragons have their endings.”_

_Tolkien, The Hobbit: There and Back Again_

_Pilot_

Ned had wondered if he were kneeling or standing, he felt his own knees buckle and shake from the weight of the world crashing down upon them, like all the clouds in the sky had careened down and pressed their weight upon his shoulders. Though he were standing in the heat that seemed to radiate off of the red mountains and sand had gathered in his boots and in every fold of skin he felt as if water was rising up around his ears.

When Ned was a child he almost drowned when learning to swim. He hadn’t been the agile swimmer that Brandon had been, nor the quickest learner as Benjen when their father had taken them to learn to swim. The pools by the Godswood had been warm, but not warm enough the Ned didn’t feel like the water cold enough to raise gooseflesh to his skin. Brandon had been a natural swimmer, their father had delighted in that. He could always be found in nothing but his smallclothes swimming in the pools in the Godswood to the amusement of his siblings and the ire of their mother and creased eyes of their father. Ned had longed to be like Brandon then, when he was a boy of maybe six years, maybe even five. Brave enough to dive into the waters with no fear, to splash and be free. But his feet had remined seemingly bolted to the stone in fear and responsibility.

Their father had left him in charge of Lyanna and Benjen, as he was wont to do when he was called away. Their father had been attempting to teach Brandon how to teach his siblings, use some responsibility. Brandon was in charge of teaching Ned to swim, actually swim and not just paddle in the water until his feet touched something tall enough upon which he could stand. But Brandon had long abandoned that and was splashing by himself. Lyanna was stood at Ned’s hip, a small thumb lodged in her mouth and in a basket at his feet was Benjen, much too young to take out of the basket and put into the water. Even though Brandon was meant to be watching Ned, Ned was in charge of watching his other siblings. Their father had been called away to view an urgent raven. Brandon waved him forward to the pools again and made the sound of a chicken as he fluffed about in the water like a natural born fish.

Ned had felt embarrassment and pride in his chest as he instructed Lyanna to stay where she was and watch Benjen, he had shirked off his heavy furs, surcoat and stood shivering at the edge of the bank in his tunic and breeches. With another chicken cluck from Brandon he had flung himself into the pools. The water had rushed up to meet him. His eyes had snapped open like his father had instructed to see where he was going but all that surrounded him were rushing waters and bubbles. Panic had seized in his chest he could feel the water filling him like a wineskin, rushing past his ears, into his nostrils and when he couldn’t hold the panic in his mouth had flapped open like a moat draw, all the water rushing in there too. Brandon had assured him later that he had only been in the water a few seconds before their father had, in heavy furs and all, yanked him from the water and gave him solid pats on the back until he was sick pond water and his breakfast on the bank, but it had felt like a lifetime, he had gone to bed early that night on urging from the Maester and dreamed of water rushing past his ears.

He felt quite like that now, standing in blood stained clothes, with sand grating his skin staring at the lifeless body of his sister.

She didn’t look so dead if one only saw her from the waist up. Her chest was not moving up and down but her skin was still deeply tan, probably from being under the hot Dornish sun. Her hair had been cut at some point but it was still long, spread about her back and down her elbows, wavy and unkempt as it always was. Her small freckles were more pronounced under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Her wide grey eyes were open and unseeing. She was in a white gown that was stained red from the waist down. Ned could hear thundering behind him. It was more likely Howland, who had likely followed him up the tower of Joy. There seemed to be hundreds of steps and Ned didn’t feel any of them until now, now that his legs were burning and his chest felt like it was closing.

The bundle on her chest made a noise.

It hadn’t cried at all, not when Lyanna had reached down with slippery hands and taken the baby from the midwife, who cowered in the corner, she had slipped down the wall and was sobbing quietly into her open palms. She had laid the baby weakly on her chest, running a blood hand down the pale creatures back. She had only made three gentle strokes before the energy had left her and her hands fell limply to support the new life, before her own slipped away from her. Like some kind of cruel trade. Howland reached the top of the stairs, wheezing the man came to an abrupt stop and nearly crumbled, holding himself aloft in the archway with weak, sweating palms. Ned stared at his sister in all her lifeless glory. His mind harsh as he imagined her just another soldier.

The war haunted him most in that moment, his sister, his only sister lay like a fallen soldier across the bed she was laid across like all of the other men that had fallen to get him to this place. Like Ser Arthur Dayne in front of the tower now. He had seen countless of them, following behind Robert on his warhorse, watching men fall like leaves in winter air, leaving the ground littered with the wilted aftermath. He had seen very little death until this last years turn, now he looked down at the eroding bodies beneath his boots with little regard toward the end, feeling like his humanity was slipping from between his fingers like river water. His sword had seen more blood than stone, his boots had walked across bones and flesh, he had done things that his honor had curdled like old milk at. _He was tired of war._ He was tired of staring at Robert’s back as he charged forward, angry revenge in his eyes, he was tired of closing his eyes and seeing the charred and destroyed corpses of his family, he wanted to return home. To the son he knew he had there, who had no idea who he was. To a wife that probably despised him, but could get to know him. He wanted to return home with his sister, who was hopefully still intact, and give her away to Robert, who was still burning like coal over revenge even though Rhaegar’s bones now lay to rest, his breastplate carved in, bloodfilled on the trident.

The death of the Dragon didn’t seem to quell any of Robert’s anger or desire for blood, despite the fact that he now sat on a throne made of steel swords fit for a Targaryen, all he wanted was his bride and perhaps a bit more blood on his sword. But Ned peered at the woman who was meant to be his bride, through burning eyes and wondered what the fighting was for. _If all the death, burning, long nights of camping and tending wounds was worth it_ , for the small and few words that she had spoken had alit a flame inside of him, despite his endless exhaustion, of anger, sadness and frustration. If only’s.

“Ned.” Howland choked out. The other man stumbled forward on legs like stilts, moving in odd tandem with each other, He still had blood on his hand from holding the small blade that drove into the back of Ser Arthur Dayne, he too was sand covered and sweat matted. Looking no better than Ned.

“Ned.” He addressed again, coming forward and resting a hand on Eddard Stark’s shoulders.

It was only then that Ned realized that he had fallen to his knees as shaky as they were. He was sat in a pool of his sisters blood, that was making slow dripping sounds as it left the side of the bed and laid in a pool on the stone floor. Soaking into the knees of Ned’s trousers and the skin on his boots, it would never come out. His palms, which had been resting flat on the floor were also covered. A great pool of it was blooming around his legs and the bed, spreading like some macabre flower. He lurched to his feet, feeling his stomach revolt, he turned from his friend and emptied the contents of his stomach on the stone floor, only adding to the general disgust of the room.

He felt as though he were purging the last few moons from his body, from the bobbing boat that brought them to this land, to the bloody and honor less fight that had ensued, to the confession wrought from his now deceased sister. All of these things left his body in the most undignified and disgusting manner that they could, fleeing from him like birds in winter. He was left feeling barren and cold, like his insides had been scraped out and draped somewhere foreign, his brain racing to catch up to the rest of him, all of the last few months colluding together in a messy and undignified manner. He finished emptying his stomach but kept his back to the scene, there was a pitcher of water on the small wooden table, he grabbed it, swigged the contents around his mouth and spat it back out, wiping his mouth with the back of his tunic sleeve. With shaking hands he began to remove his armor, starting at the shoulders. His helm was long lost in the sand as it was too hot to even begin to worry about wearing it, the heat would kill you just as surely as a blade. He let his armor fall a few feet from where he stood, his back feeling cold with sweat as he removed the heavy top. He stretched his head back, his ears catching the faint sounds of rustling, sniffling and slow dripping. There was the whining sound again. He closed his eyes. He had to think.

“Ned.” Howland tried again, sounding more desperate. Finally, realizing that turning his back to it would not make it go away like he wanted it to, would not make him wake up in King’s Landing to find his sister making fun of him for his cries in his sleep. He faced his friend, who was staring pale and wide eyed at the scene in front of him. The midwife was still in the corner though her sobbing had stopped, she was staring with unseeing darting eyes at Lyanna, her own white and grey dress drenched in blood. She had dusky Dornish skin and sandy hair that was twisted back into a bun.

“Howland.” Ned swallowed. It was the only response he could give his friend.

“What has happened, did she – was she – certainly – “

“She was alive when I arrived up here, the birth .. it has seemed to – be too much for her.” His sister was a girl of five and ten, who had always been scrawny and boyish, despite having just become a mother she seemed more so in those last few moments he had seen her living, her cheeks were hollowed out like those of an emaciated dog, her arms skinny, her elbows like knobby knees. He hadn’t even known she had ever had her moons blood, let alone be able to carry a child.

“She was with child. Ned. The child.” The child. He didn’t want to address that yet, but like everything with this war it waited on no one. “Belonged to Rhaegar. She told me as such.” He said.

Staring unseeing at his sister.

“He raped her then, and held her here. We must take the nurse back for questioning, and the Babe .. Robert.. He - “

“Howland.” Ned snatched his younger friend by the shoulders and dragged him close. All of the things his friend was saying would have made sense, it would have been the noble and honorable thing to do had the situation not been what it had been, had the situation had been what they thought they would have taken the midwife, the babe and his sisters remains to King’s Landing to face appropriate justice if Rhaegar had kidnapped his sister, forced himself on her, if the Rebellion were true. The world tilted on its axis had proved that the rebellion was not true, that the refuse they had waded through on the battlefield had been built on a lie. A bad lie. “We cannot do that.” Ned told his friend, swallowing. “She confessed, before – she said – “

“ _The Usurper will kill the child.”_ The midwife said. Her voice was thickly accented and lilted across the room like an arrow. She had heard it all, seen it all, she was a witness. With the newly feral side of his brain he wondered if he should leave the body of the maid here, at the tower, another witness would do no justices. Especially a maid who called Robert the Usurper.

“What did she confess Ned.” It wasn’t a question, it was stated with a bleak and wary voice. In the nights at camp, when Robert was snoring away his ale and bread Howland and Ned had sat around the fire, piecing together their fury at the situation. Ned in grief, and Howland in quiet contemplation. He had asked a question that was never meant to be said aloud, was never meant to be uttered in Robert’s presence, but should have been asked nonetheless. On one of those nights they were sharpening their blades, taking watch at the camp as soldiers milled around, stumbling, they quietly sat about, utterly Northern in their behavior and Howland had asked, with a whisper, “ _Would Rhaegar really kidnap a woman?”_ Ned had jerked back from his friend in shock at having voiced the question that was on everyone’s mind but not to be graced across anyone’s tongue. Everyone had known of the Silver Prince, Ned himself had met the young Knight and Prince, a soft spoken and seemingly gentle soul, who rode fierce but spoke soft. Ned had watched him with his own Princess, his gentle and soft touch as the then pregnant woman had settled in at a feast. The Prince had sung a song and played the harp softly for the smallfolk, Robert had mocked him, but Lyanna had looked on with misted eyes. He seemed a gentle man, but gentle men were also capable of atrocities. Just not this gentle man. It was no secret, or good kept lie that Lyanna did not want to be married to Robert, who she thought to be a whoremonger and cheat, a drunk boy who wasn’t good enough to be Lord. Ned had tried to come to the defense of his foster brother but Robert didn’t make it any easier for Ned to do so, with his flirtations and antics. But Ned thought, he prayed, he believed that Lyanna would come round’ would see that it was a good match, good for their house and for the Kingdoms, that she would abandon her secret thoughts of adventure and running away.

All of that seemed to be bare now, showing all of its skin and private bits and pieces. His sister lay bloodied on the bed, a lovestruck confession on her tongue, and a promise on his, another bloody promise.

“She confessed the truth.” Ned said. “She confessed what you already knew.” Howland cursed, and turned, his back was facing Ned as he heaved in great lungfulls of air.

Ned wouldn’t blame the man if he spun and struck him, or stabbed him in the back the same as he had done the Knights outside. All of the death, the destruction, the absolute destitute of the kingdoms now lay at the feet of a lie. Ned swallowed when he thought of his brother, his father, his future. The babe whined. The midwife stood from her puddle, her back sliding up the wall. She must have only been two and three or two and five at the most. Her sandy hair was falling from its clip, her dress coated in new and old blood. She stood but did not move. Howland spun back around, eyes darting and fiery.

“We cannot tell Robert.” He said. He spoke of what Ned already knew to be true. The words treason on his tongue. There was no way that they could tell Robert, tell anyone. The only one who would know the truth after this day would be Benjen, who was residing at Winterfell with Ned’s bride.

“No. We cannot.”

“The Usurper will kill the child.” The maid said again, and Ned finally spoke to her.

“Do not call him that.”

“It is the truth.” She stuck her chin in the air. Her dark Dornish eyes baring down on him.

“It is a truth that, if you want to survive, you will keep to yourself.” The maid blinked at him in shock.

“You will not kill me?” She said, blinking at him as if he were the strangest creature she had ever seen.

“I don’t know what I will do.” He admitted. Staring down at his boots which were sitting in the red puddle, he rubbed his face, regretting it instantly knowing he should have washed his red hands first.

“Ned.” Howland said again, this time with urgency. “I know Howlan-“

“The babe!” He called, Ned jerked forward praying for fast reflexes.

His sisters arms had began to slacken in their bloodless state and the babe slid from his sister’s chest, and began to slide down, it’s skin still slick with blood and other fluids, Ned stumbled through the mess of the floor and held the babe still on his sisters chest, which was near concaved from emaciation. He held his hands still on the babe’s warm skin in contrast with his sister’s own cooling skin. The maid rushed forward, seemingly having her will back. “We must cut the cord, so the babe does not see infection. A blade Ser!” She demanded from Howland, who handed her the bloody blade that had been previously lodged in a man’s back. She took the cord in one fist and sliced it open with another.

“Take the babe.” She ordered. With unsteady hands Ned picked up the child and held it to his tunic, the midwife bustled ahead and took a quilt that had been bunched in the corner of the room and laid it over his sisters body gentle, unfolding it to cover her from foot to the top of her head. She bowed her head and seemingly said a quick prayer in an unknown language under her breath.

“Is it a male babe?” There was a tremor in Howland’s voice. Ned found himself back in his body, seemingly transported away staring at the quilt covered bed. “No.” His last conversation with his sister lingering on his tongue. **Visenya**.

“A girl child. That is better. Ned, what will we do?” He asked again. His brain, though it felt sluggish, wilted a plan from his lips that he knew would only half work, they had a few things on their side. One, the babe looked northern. It was pale of skin with tufts of dark curly hair on its little head, black eyebrows and a long chin and long nose. He held the baby against his chest to peer at it, it’s eyes were open, and staring at him, but they were the familiar grey blue of all babe’s eyes. As long as they remained grey or blue they would have a fighting chance of keeping these secrets. If they turned lavender, violet or the murky eggplant of Aery’s they would have a larger problem that would require some maneuvering. So far, she could pass of as Lyanna as a babe.

He had a familiar memory of his father walking him and Brandon to the nursery to look in on their new sister, and she looked quite like this, only with straight black hair.

“We will take the babe to Winterfell, we will tell them a half truth, that she is my kin and that her mother passed in childbirth, she looks Northern enough to pass as my Bastard.” The word left a venomous taste on his tongue. She was no Bastard, she was an heir, the rightful ruler to sit on the Iron Throne, if the rumors about Rhaegar’s children were to be believed. Bile splashed on his tongue at the thought, of that happening to this babe, Lyanna’s babe – Rhaenys thrown against a wall, Aegon crushed beneath a boot – “ _Protect her, Ned.”_ she could be heir of that no longer, her father dead at the Trident and her mother bloodless in the Tower of Joy, a man who is sitting on the throne who called the deceased children of the Prince Dragonspawn, and had to be convinced to let their bones across the sea to their rightful place.

“Her name?” Howland asked, stepping closer to examine the newborn who blinked with owlish eyes, her little mouth making noiseless shapes as she took in the new world she has been brought into. And what world, Ned thought, a world that would no doubt treat her as well below her rightful station, as he would present her as a Bastard, a cruel world that came to war at the supposed love between her parents, a world that would split if the truth of her mother came about, if any of her Father’s kin lived to take her away. A baby child who would be able to raze cities if the truth of her came about.

Howland removed his tunic and splashed water from the pitcher on it and handed it to Ned wordlessly, Ned gently took it to the babe’s skin wiping away the blood and fluids, coming away with softly rounded pale skin, blue veins, tiny ears, ten fingers and ten toes.

“Visenya.” The nurse said. She approached Ned with the cotton fabric that had been covering the feather pillow. Ned took it from her and gently covered the babe, wrapping her in it, covering her bottom and securing her to his chest with an arm. This child was his responsibility, his to care for, his to love, the last part of his sister that walked this earth.

“No.” He corrected the midwife who was staring at him, he could feel Howland’s eyes on him as well.

“Lyliana.” Ned cleared his throat, feeling moisture build up in his eyes. Feeling like the last year was going to erupt from his eyes like a waterfall, one warm salty tear hit the babe’s cheeks from where she was swaddled, he let them come, let them fall from his long nose and land on the babe who cooed at him with wide eyes.

“She is my daughter, her name will be Lyliana.”

**Song: “When It’s Cold I’d Like To Die” – Moby**


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyli. 
> 
> STILL LOOKING FOR A BETA! PLEASE LET ME KNOW BELOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED, THIS PERSON WILL NEED TO BE AVAILABLE FOR BOTH EDITING AND IDEA BOUNCING!

Part One

___________________________

So Comes Snow After Fire

Lyliana

_Song: “Work Song” Hozier_

**“Do not be afraid; our fate Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.” ― Dante Alighieri, Inferno**

An arrow landed on top of her foot.

She stared down at it.

The wooden shaft lay across her foot like a discarded stick, it was clearly one from the yard, as it was rough and not smooth, it was clearly unfinished in its production. the heavy metal tip was leaning precariously into the dirt and the feathers at the end were pulled and plucked at like someone had worried it between grubby hands. It obviously hadn’t been let loose from a bow, as it had landed sideways with a soft thump, and it obviously hadn’t been thrown with the intent to hit her as it teetered on her foot almost embarrassingly. Ghost leaned down and gave it a precautionary sniff and then went to continue hunting through the grass.

Lyli turned on her heel and stared at the only culprit available. The lanky black dog stood seemingly on its lonesome, its head tilted at her, ears flopped over in a guileless manner. She narrowed her eyes at Shaggydog who thumped his great tail against the ground. Beside him was a thick tree, oak roots shooting out of the ground to embed in the partially frozen earth. It was damp outside from a recent sleet, but not too cold. As it was still not yet winter, this type of chill was tolerable and normal for the North. Lyli wore only breeches and tunic under her furs and still felt fine under the winter air, though she knew Robb, wherever he had wandered, was probably still freezing. The sleet had left the ground partially frozen and damp, which is what sent them out on their hunt that day, they were under strict orders to check upon the camp of Freefolk their father had recently taken South of the wall due to in-fighting and a truce that was seemingly struck up between the North and Mance Rayder.

There had been reports from Castle Black for many moons about a camp of Freefolk that was mostly made up of women and children that was inching closer and closer to Castle Black, they weren’t shooed away or removed because they were mostly harmless, not a warrior among them, just young men with their mothers and some sickly older men. The women themselves were fierce but more than half of them had been pregnant or elderly. They had taken it upon themselves to plead with The King Beyond the Wall to negotiate with the Kneelers to come south, they were already seeing the symptoms of Winter beyond the wall and her father wasn’t going to turn away a colony of fifty women and children who just wanted safety from other Freefolk colonies and whatever remaining warmth there was South of the wall. Their father had sent her, along with Robb and Theon to check upon them today; though Robb and Theon didn’t seem to have as amicable a relationship with the Freefolk they were allowed within the camp as they checked on the camp’s provisions and care to report back to Father, Theon just jeered at the women which earned him equal jeers in turn, Lyli had been accept amongst the Freefolk as she was a woman who could ride and could wield a blade. That alone had earned her their respect.

She had poked her head in on some of the families that she had gotten to know, a woman had recently given birth but wouldn’t give the child a name yet. She had allowed Lyli to hold the small babe and give it a bounce. The sleet had caused some issues and Lyli had vowed to get them more furs, she had gone out hunting on her own for furs for them lately, as most of the women were either still pregnant or their babes were not old enough to risk being separated from their mother. Though the freefolk were proving to be efficient trappers on their own, they were best at catching birds – something that most Northerner’s did not do, they set their traps deep in the branches of the thick oaks that surrounded their colony and caught many an eagle, hawk and cardinal. They had even begun some trade with Wintertown in feathers and quills.

The Freefolk seemed to accept Lyli, especially as she came with no title and visited more often than her siblings. She would take day rides to go and see them, sometimes bringing Dana and spend the day and night with the Freefolk, learning their culture and bringing them extra furs, provisions and seeds for vegetables that would last the winter. Her father said that it was smart of her to do, diplomatic and kind, though he worried about her going on her own, Lady Stark had said nothing – just twisting her lips in distaste as she often did. She had been wholly against the idea of the Freefolk coming beyond the wall, and residing so close to Wintertown, but didn’t speak her mind – at least in front of the children – but put on a smile when the Smallfolk had praised their decision, as they were now able to trade freely with the Freefolk who apparently charged cheaper prices than the shops in Wintertown for furs and blankets, which they made with their accumulation of feathers. the Freefolk were also more willing to do work. It had been a good decision on the part of her father politically, despite Lady Stark’s misgivings.

Arya, Bran and Rickon had made their objections clear when Father had elected Theon, Robb and Lyli to do the scouting, accounting, and inspections of the Freefolk. They had wanted to go down to the camp and see them, as they had grown up their whole lives hearing stories of wildlings from the wall, but Father had banned them from all trips. At first the Freefolk were living in makeshift tents and hay beds in the elements, but father had donated some lumber and supplies had been sent in from the Karstark’s, Umber’s and Bolton’s and now they had small huts to live in. Most of the inspections were Robb checking in on their supplies, Theon being of little to no use and Lyli flitting from hut to hut to check upon the people that she had recently come to enjoy the company of. To the Freefolk she was no Bastard, no girl with no dowry, not the scorn on her Father’s record, or a dishonorable moment in the South, she was just Lyli – a hunting, horse riding, sword wielding girl who spent her time learning their ways of setting traps, and their stories of White Walkers and great Bears from North of the Wall.

Arya and Bran had made their attempts already to sneak down to see them but had been stopped by the Knights who guarded Winterfell, it seemed however, that this time one of them had succeeded and his tall black wolf was staring at Lyli.

“Shaggy, here.” She ordered, pointing at the frozen ground in front of her. Shaggy loped over, giving her black destrier a sniff. The horse had been a nameday gift from her Father, with long strong legs and a muscled body it was all warhorse, Lady Stark had disapproved but Father had seemed so proud to present it to her. He was as dark as Lyli’s hair and loved treats, she had packed her satchel with carrots and apples for him to snack on.

“Rickon, here.” She pointed at the ground in front of her again, Shaggy had sat there waiting for a head pat. The bushes rustled, she stared impatiently at the oak. A small red head popped over and gave her a bashful look. She narrowed her eyes at him. He scampered out from around the tree and came over to her. He was barely dressed for the occasion, in mismatched boots, one brown and one black, Bran’s red-fox fur lined cloak and breeches and a tunic. He didn’t appear cold from a distance but up close she could see that his teeth were lightly chattering.

“Rickon you followed us!” She admonished him. He launched himself at her legs, clutching at her breeches and looking up at her. His little six-year-old mouth babbling at her, “Lyli! I saw the Freefolk, I followed you and Robb, and I was so sneaky you never saw me! Ghost saw me but he didn’t say anything though.” Lyli told herself to give Ghost a stern talking to about his babysitting duties.

“Rickon Stark.” She kneeled on the cold ground. “You are in so much trouble. Your mother and father are probably worried sick. Come now.” She led him by the shoulders to the horse, and hefting him onto there, she stepped on after him taking off her own cloak and wrapping him in it. Letting his little hands grip the reins between her own hands they started at a gentle lope toward where Robb and Theon disappeared to check some traps.

“I saw you with the Freefolk.” Rickon babbled. “They don’t look like the monsters from Nan’s stories! Was that a baby you held? Did you hold me when I was that small?” She answered all his questions patiently, keeping him bundled and warm. She couldn’t help but begin to dread the sort of Hell that Lady Stark would put her through if she got the thought in her head that Lyli had somehow coerced Rickon out into the wilds. Her punishments had gotten creative over the years, as Father wouldn’t allow Lady Stark to outright torture the girl, it didn’t mean that within the next couple of days Lady Stark would create some ‘lesson’ that required the scrubbing of silver with impossibly hot water, dusting down the entire library, sorting and cleaning rags, or harsh kitchen work. Her last punishment had been doled out under the guise of “kitchen management” where she had been tasked with peeling, cutting and cooking over 100 onions for a stew that was being made for a visit with the Karstark’s and Umber’s – not that Lyli had been invited to the feast, she had been in her room nursing red, raw, singed hands. She knew that if she took the time to inform someone, like Robb or Father then the punishments would likely stop, but Lyli also knew then the position she put her half brother and Father in, it would mean that they would have to have some kind of confrontation with Lady Stark, it would be unfair for them.

So Lyli had long learned to just complete the tasks as soon as she could, work with her head down until she could be free of it. Her horse tumbled along lightly, light enough that she did not jostle Rickon, who was not in proper riding gear and was sitting unsteadily in her arms. She saw Grey Wind in the distance, standing by Robb’s own brunette destrier and Theon’s grey spotted pony that had just been borrowed from the stables that morning. Though her half brother and Winterfell’s resident pestering hostage was no where to be seen, but they could be heard.

“Give it back – “

“Don’t be a child.”

“I’m not being a child.”

“Yes, bickering like this is really proving that to be true.” Theon snarked at the heir to Winterfell as he held a basket in his hand.

Lyli narrowed her eyes on the basket, and the red fruit therein and shook her head with a muted groan. Winter fruit had started to blossom all along the small path that they took to visit the camp, and Theon and Robb had taken to eating so much of it that by the time they reached Winterfell again sometimes they were bedbound with sore stomachs, forcing Lyli to make a herb mix so they would end their sickness, now however, the fruit was beginning to become more spotty as the two young men had picked and plucked most of it away, in their most recent of trips they had taken a basket and filled it to eaten on the way back. Lady Stark would have a fit if she saw Robb now, with stained red lips like a child who ate too many summer berries.

“Children.” Lyli gently admonished. Both youths snapped her way. Theon holding the basket over his head, as he was taller than Robb. Robb was broad of shoulders and medium of height like their father, though he was Tully coloured he was built like a Stark. Theon was built like a fish, lean shoulders, tall and lanky, no matter how much swinging he did in the yard he didn’t seem to bulk up in the way that Robb did, and he didn’t take to the sword as well, more of a bowman.

“Rickon.” Robb squeaked. His littlest brother was resting back against his sister, tufts of red hair escaping the cloak of furs that she had taken from herself and draped over the boy.

“I followed you!” The youngest of the Stark’s crowed from where he sat bundled.

“Your mother is razing Winterfell right about now.” Was all Theon had to say as he swung himself back upon the pony and let the basket rest in his lap. Robb swung himself back up on his horse and gave it a consolatory pat on the head as it let out an unhappy grunt. Robb’s horse was a grumpy thing, prone to throwing fits which left Lyli giggling and Theon smirking. Robb took to berating their younger brother, attempting to take him away from Lyli but Rickon had begun to cry loudly at being separated from her sister. All of the younger Stark siblings, save Sansa, loved Lyli. Arya, Bran and Rickon were Lyli’s bond even on the worst of days, while Lady Stark didn’t trust Lyli as far as she could throw her, and seemed to want her far enough away that she could pretend she didn’t exist, even Lady Stark could not deny the help that Lyli provided in raising the small children.

Though she kept Sansa mostly sheltered, it didn’t keep her from ordering Lyliana to do the herding of the small children. When Arya had been born, Sansa still saw Lyli as just another sibling, she had not yet been lectured on the evil and deranged way that bastards supposedly existed. Lyli had been 4 when Sansa was born, and her father had snuck her into seeing the little red-head babe, even though Lady Stark had prevented it initially. By the time Arya was born, her Father had been making larger efforts to include Lyli on family activities and therefore kept Lady Stark from keeping them apart. Arya had looked quite like Lyli, besides their biggest difference – they could almost be twins. Their behavior was quite the same as well, Lyli was the first person to put a sword in Arya’s hands, or present her with the idea that the stories where not just a place to find a woman with a blade. Though Lyli was six when Arya was born she had had the little girl on her hip since she was born, hobbling around Winterfell holding her sister, who grew jealous when Bran who was born shortly after.

At eight she was strong enough to carry both Bran and Arya on both her hips and one of them had to get down when Rickon was born just a short two years later. The three smallest Stark children could be found toddling after their eldest sister at all times of day and night when they are not otherwise occupied. From following her to her duties, to begging for treats in the kitchen. She spent her mornings getting Arya, Rickon and Bran ready for the day, because she usually woke up with them in her bed. Lady Stark had done all she could to stop this, and when she realized she couldn’t stop it, when Rickon had taken a tumble down the steps to see her at night in the dark, she had moved – after fourteen years – Lyli’s room up to the family quarters where she took in a small room with a large set of windows and a new featherbed, a gift from her father.

Lady Stark resented the connection between the three youngest Stark children with Lyli, but didn’t do much to curtail it besides keep Lyli as busy as possible with chores, tasks and lessons. But Lyli always made time for the little ones, when she wasn’t on the yard, in the kitchens, or the library, she was teaching Arya and Bran their steps in the yard, finger painting with Rickon and letting them lead her into their pretend adventures throughout the Keep. Robb led her and Theon through the gates of Winterfell, where, predictably, Lady Stark was stood with Septa Mordane, Ser Jory Cassel and Father, who was standing with his hands upon his hips, his great wolf pelt cloak draped dramatically behind his back, Ice on his hip, though he had a stern frown on his face, his eyes were twinkling.

Lyli relaxed a bit, their father wasn’t too vexed.

“Snow.” Came Lady Stark’s firm voice. Ser Jory had stepped forward and held her get Rickon down, who leapt over to his father to tell him of his grand adventure. She took Jory’s gloved hand and swung a breeches covered leg over her horse and stepped down next to her half-brother. Lord Stark held knelt down in front of his youngest son to gently admonish him.

“Rickon, you cannot leave the Keep without a guard, it is unsafe.”

“I had a guard, I took Shaggy.” He pointed a chubby finger at the direwolf who was chasing his own tail in delight in the yard, with Grey Wind and Ghost looking on with bored eyes.

“Shaggydog is fierce, but not enough of a guard yet, as he is not full grown. You could have gotten hurt and you could have gotten your siblings in trouble.” Her father’s eyes implored Lady Stark, who huffed and turned back to Keep, saving Lyli her punishment until later. Robb stepped forward and gave their father a fierce hug.

“How are our Freefolk?” Lyliana felt pride at her father calling the Freefolk theirs, as he could have faced a large amount of scrutiny for taking them in, instead their Banners had swelled with pride at the Norther Lord for taking in the Freefolk and turning them into a small camp, of which were providing for themselves and a good look for the North, creating a new population that was increasing revenue, the pelts and trade were good – but the stories were better. After hearing their stories her first trip there Lyli had gone back with some scrolling and ink and written down some of their legends, their father had the idea to send them to the Citadel for study, where they became a hot commodity. Larger, wealthier houses began to request them for their own records and studies, House Tyrell had made a first bid, and then House Lannister, House Baratheon, and even smaller houses like Boiling and Bracken. The Freefolk had been for so long Wildlings, with stories that hadn’t been updated in years since Bran the Builder – so to hear them now, fresh and what the terrain, environment and culture was like Beyond the Wall was something people all over Westeros was interested in.

“They are well Father, the seeds that Lyli had brought to them are starting to spring up, and they did not suffer too much from the sleet, we are going to reinforce their roofs before it starts to snow in true, however.” Robb reported. Walking back through the Keep with their father.

Lyli followed behind them, as she knew her Father would have questions for her, she watched their backs move in tandem with a bit of longing as she stared at their grand cloaks, and all about Winterfell, in which Robb would inherit. She was not jealous of her brother, she knew Robb would make a wonderful Lord one day. He was already learning so quickly and becoming a more and more respected figure throughout the Keep and through the North. But Robb had something she did not, the ability to turn something down. Lyli knew from a young age that she had been given a shorter stick in life; Lady Stark certainly drilled it into her enough, she would have to take whatever was offered to her and grab it up with dry hands. Every opportunity that was given to her, she was meant to grab with both hands and embrace it. When Father had offered to teach her the beginnings of training with a sword she had grasped it with both hands, when Lady Stark offered to let Septa Mordane teach her to run a kitchen and its accounts she had grasped it, training with Gage night and day, When Mikken had let her learn the complex world of the blacksmith she had all but slept outside his shed until she made a handful of daggers, a hammer, a skinny sword and a long spear. And one day, a man stupid enough would come along and ask for her hand in marriage, a man who wanted a small piece of Winterfell, and she would have to accept.

She had never been able to meet many suitors, as she had spent most her time locked away or working the kitchen line during feasts, no one had been able to lay eyes on her. While Lady Stark allowed her to eat at the family table during regular meals, she was not permitted if there were any official guests. To her knowledge, though she had flowered some six moons ago, no one had asked for her hand in marriage. And she was perfectly fine with that, and her Father seemed rather fine with it as well. Robb had grand dreams of her staying in Winterfell with him, even when the rest of their siblings were married and gone, or partnered in Winterfell, she would stay with him, find a husband of her choice and they would be together always. They had always been the best of friends, her and Robb. They had been crib mates, then only playmates until Theon had come along and then hunting buddies, though Robb had been shortly fostered with Lady Stark’s father, they had written raven’s week after week, Robb would whisper dreams as a child that they were born twins like The Queen and her Knightly brother, instead they were separated from status of natural born and true born. Lyli didn’t know of this grand dream, if she would forever want to stay in Winterfell as Robb’s Bastard Sister – though she loved her home, and she would be loath to leave it, she would be stupid to stay within it. No immediate options arose, however.

“Lyliana, what of the people?” Her father finally turned to ask her, it was only then that she realized she had stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the walk way like some frozen effigy; she moved forward, smiling at her father who was staring at her with a concerned eye.

“They are well, my Lord.” She was permitted to call him Father, and even Papa like Arya and Sansa did when in private, but in public Lady Stark had already made her opinion clear, and her father had talked to her at a young age about what their titles were in public, though it had broken her heart then, she couldn’t let herself dwell on it now as an woman nearly grown.

“They have two new births, a boy child and girl child – they say they are doing well, they have formed a small farming group of which goes out to check the vegetation every day, they did ask if we could part with some cotton or wool for which they could make heavier clothing for their younger children.” Her father nodded along as she walked to catch up to them. “They have taken a great trust and liking to you, you are doing a fine job for your House. I am proud of you. Both of you.” He stared at them, Lyli flushed as a Knight for House Stark walked past, hearing the praise. She was not used to public affection.

“Go and clean yourself for the evening meal, your Mother and I have some information upon which we need to share with you.” He strode away after that, his great sword strapped to his back. Robb nudged her at the flush on her face as they walked back to the family quarters.

“You look as though your face has seen too much sun.” He jested with her. She shot him daggers with her eyes. He knew she didn’t like when he teased her, he spent a lot of time telling her she was much too humble, hiding many of her talents away He didn’t understand that she didn’t have an option but to be humble, she had grown up hearing nothing but the stories of the horrors of Bastards, how they were greedy, how they were boisterous and stealing, lustful and murderous, she didn’t want to give Lady Stark the thought or credence to any of these rumors. So she spent most of her time with her head down or nose in some scroll or another. “And you look as if you could use some sun.” She teased back, his skin so pale that his peach freckles were standing out starkly against his face.

“You’re one to talk, _Snow_.” He teased, pinching the skin on her face, he had always made cringe-y jokes regarding her pale skin and surname. They separated in the family quarters as Lyli stepped into her rooms and headed to collect some things to head the public baths. She had a small wooden tub in her room but she couldn’t really use it unless she had Dana about to help her fill the thing. She took off what was necessary, her furs, her belt that housed both her blades, and her boots, she left them at the foot of the bed, knowing the stern talking to she would get if Dana found her room in such disarray. Ghost went over to his small makeshift bed in the corner and sat upon it, turning himself in circles until he was made comfortable in front of the fireplace. In just her riding dress and breeches she kneeled in front of the hearth and worked at starting a small fire there to warm her room. The closer the rooms were to Lord and Lady Stark’s, the warmer they got but Lyli’s were the farthest away, while still warmed by the water that rushed through the piping, they caught a lot more chill than Robb and Sansa’s rooms.

No maids came into her rooms unless asked to by Lady Stark, in which Lyli could count on one hand the amount of times that had happened so she was in charge of cleaning her own rooms, staring her own fires and keeping her own pitchers full, all of which she was happy to do. She was not some gentle Lady who would have people at her beck and call for her life, the best she could hope for was a decent Knight who had one or two staff in his home. This was work she was used to. So instead she grabbed a large sheet towel, her bathing oils and soaps and her dressing gown and headed to the private bath houses for in-house staff. It was gloriously empty as she arrived, she took the time to untie her hair, it fell down her back a heavy curtain of loose curls she pulled the pins from the top and let her fringe fall in front of her eyes. She removed her heavy riding dress, unbuttoning the high collar and as far down her back as she could reach before slipping it over her head, she was left in her chest binding and brassiere. She untied the breeches and let them fall, and gently undid her breast bindings. There were budding bruises under her armpits that were tender as she stepped into the steaming water. Dana hadn’t been there this morning to help her put them on, though she always did so with a disapproving _‘tut’_ she did them much better than Lyli, who always did them a little too tight on accident, pulling the string just a tad too high and tucking it firmly – it was easier to fight, Lyli found, when her breasts were bound and out of the way.

Besides all of that, she had blossomed alarmingly and embarrassingly fast, Septa Mordane had told her it was because of the lustful blood in her veins, and she should be shamed, but Dana had told her it was only nature, and that her mother, whoever she was, had probably been heavy breasted or it came somewhere up the line. Before getting her moonsblood she had already experienced the pain of having wide hips, which had previously been bony, and now breasts – that she didn’t want – were beginning to form. She took a scrap of cloth and rubbed it over the bar of soap and scrubbed at her skin, then took her oils and lathered her hair, ducking her entire body under the water to quickly rinse in clean. She always bathed fast if she was alone in the bathing room, she didn’t want to give the servants or Septa Mordane’s spies anything to gossip about, so her bath was quick she did not have the time to enjoy the hot water as she stepped back out and into her towel, drying her legs and torso quickly before shoving her still damp body into her dressing gown. As she did so, two serving girls stepped into the bathhouse, whispering to each other as they watched her collect the belongings she brought with her and leave the bath house, glad she had hurried as she did so. She entered her rooms after darting through the halls, sure her long hair was leaving a disgraceful trail of water as she slipped back into her rooms.

“You should have called me.” She made a great effort not to positively leap out of her skin from the sound of Dana, sitting in the rocking chair beside the now crackling fire, commenting on her wet dog appearance. Lyli turned to face the older woman and gave her a sheepish smile that was made all the more humiliating as water slid cold down her face from her wet bangs.

“I would have drawn you a bath,” She continued, pulling at the wool that was winding around her needles. Unbothered by the woman being in the room, Lyli dropped the towel and undid her dressing gown, wincing as her bruises were irritated. She strode, half drying herself to the oak dresser her father made for her and puled from it some smallclothes and white shift dress. She stepped into her small clothes. “And I don’t know why you run from the bath house as if you have some kind of shame, those serving girls wished they looked as you do, my darling.” Wrapping the towel around her head, in her shift and bare feet she walked to Dana and settled at the woman’s feet in an ungraceful heap, laying her drying head on the woman’s knee, which appeared a little swollen.

Lyli heard her set her knitting to the side and then familiar, weathered hands pulling the towel from her head, where a whalebone comb began to shuffle out the tangles. The room was quiet and warm, only the sounds of their breathing, Lyli felt as if she could slip into the sweetest of evening dreams to the sounds of this. This was the sound of her life. Dana Sand looked down at the Princess turned Bastard whose eyes were closed in her lap as she took in the curls and worked them through quietly. She again, sent up gentle prayers for her girl. The girl she had nursed on goatsmilk as a Babe, through the treacherous way back. She had watched her grow from chubby babe, to gangly girl, to shapely woman, a woman who looked more and more like her father every day. Despite her duties being those of a midwife and kitchen maid when she as unneeded in Wintertown for childbearing she always made time in the evenings to spend time with the girl she thought of as no less than her daughter, and felt her heart clench at the thought of her girl so far down the King’s Road, in dens of Roses and Lions. Lyliana was a quiet and astute child, she took in information and learned all she could, knowing that she had been given a shorter stick in life she took that stick and molded it into skills and abilities, her hands had more callouses than that of her brother, who was meant to be The Warden in the North someday.

It had taken Dana a long time to get down the politics of Westeros once leaving Dorne, they were prudish, strict and bound by silly rules of honor and trust, they let rules dictate their future whether it bode good or horrendous. There are many times Dana had wondered what would have happened if Ned Stark had stumbled in the room just a few hours later, if Dana had been given time to take the babe with her to the Free Cities or down into Dorne where they could have lived together, as mother and daughter, instead of bringing her back here to face judgement every day of her life for sins she did not commit. To subject a Princess to the life of a servant.

She finished combing through the dense sheets of hair, Lyli’s eyes fluttered open and stared at her. Dana’s heart crumbled in her chest, blowing like powder down into her stomach which clenched in fear every time she met those powerful lilac eyes in full. Knowing that in them held the truth, a most dangerous truth, Dana had been enchanted by the eyes that sought her out even as a babe on the boat ride and many donkey ride back to Winterfell. As they lightened and lightened and tinted she watched Ned Stark’s resolve to the promise of a dead woman harden, he avoided showing the babe to anyone but his brother, Lord Reed and Dana for as long as he could. When the eyes had finally settled into their final color, he had been equal parts horrified and amazed. Dana had met the girls true father, when he sought her out in her hut and asked her to do her duties to the Gods and deliver upon the world The Prince that was Promised, she had seen his eyes. They had been violet in true, but in certain lights they looked indigo and even grey like Lord Stark’s – the Princess that was promised didn’t seem to have a problem of murky heritage. Her eyes were of light lilac, like Violet’s had lemon juice squeezed upon them. So light they were almost unnerving set upon her pale skin and against her dark hair. They were unmistakable. Lord Stark did his best of course, and Dana had always pretend to know very little common tongue and thus fielded off rumors but people had assumed it had been The Lady Ashara, but anyone who had met a Dayne would see that this girls nose was too pointed, her cheekbones too high, to be a Dayne. Dana feared for the child.

A child she considered partially her own.

“Your father has news for you.” She said, clearing her throat. She took sections of Lyliana’s hair and began to braid it back so that in the morning it would not tangle into a web of mess and yet still look presentable for dinner.

“He said as much.” Lyli said, examining her nail beds, scooping dirt out from underneath one with her thumb nail.

“The news he wishes to share, I must share with you first. You must be prepared.” Dana took deep breaths, feeling like her heart was powdering in her chest. “Your father is riding South, he has been asked by Jon Arryn to come South to celebrate the King’s nameday with a Tourney and take part in trade talks.” Lyliana jerked from her hands, a braid left undone. She stared at the woman who had raised her in shock.

“Father is going South?” Lyli’s mouth twisted with unhappiness. “Worse, my love. He will be taking you with him.”

_________________

Stannis stared down at the mangled headless bodies that lay ungracefully placed upon the stone alters in which they now lay. He couldn’t bring himself to raise his head to look into their deadened eyes still in their detached heads that were mounted on spike’s at the very end of the table, like some macabre feast. Though he supposes that it was Robert’s intention. Stannis had no love for the Targaryen’s, that much was sure. Though he had grown up hearing of court under the Targaryen rule from his father, who had always talked of the Targaryen’s as if they had invented bread or water – he held much love for them, he died at sea for them, so it wasn’t as if the sight before him left him with a bitter taste due to sentimentality. In short, it was sloppy. It was messy. It was poorly planned. It was Robert. When his brother had ordered him to the Keep to take up the post of Master of Laws he had expected no less than what he had received, though he had hoped that his brother had cleared himself of the Ale a little bit to see that his Kingdom was leaving nothing but waste to the Baratheon name, and that he was no more fit for a King than any other drunkard off the street if he kept it up – but Stannis was drowned out. Though Stannis was younger than Robert, by only a few short years, he felt as though he had been born lifetimes before his brother, though he had been in King’s Landing for little under a year, he felt he knew more about the Kingdom and it’s many burning loopholes and problems than Robert did. His brother had not come from the war any sort of smarter, wiser, or prepared than he had started it. Instead he had returned drunk, heartbroken and still burning at both ends for Targaryen blood. It seemed in that regard, he had succeeded. The two mangled bodies underneath him were the success of that.

The male, Visery’s, was missing both an arm and a leg below the knee. He was in tattered clothing and mostly emaciated, though they had tried to preserve the body as best they could during the sail back to the Red Keep. Jorah had done a better job on the girl, and a girl she was, at around ten and four she was tiny, probably not having flowered. Her hair had been chopped from her head and now lay bound on the corpses headless chest. She had all her limbs, the slit that had killed her was hidden due to the fact that her head had been removed. Both their lifeless stared at Stannis, Stannis did not stare back. Instead he walled in anger and frustration, shame at the legacy that would be left behind when their name preceded their lives.

“I thought I would find you here.” Stannis tried not to visibly startle at his younger brother’s words, he settled for a glare his way that would have withered any man not kin to shucked corn. Instead, Renly made his way jauntily through the sept, looking like a royal fool with his toothy grin and dark green cloak. His younger brother had arrived early for the Tournament per request from their brother, leaving Storm’s End to come to their brothers beck and call, bringing his good friend Loras Tyrell, early as well. Though only a few days as they were expecting the rest of the Tyrell’s within a few days time. He had been a meeting late into the evening with Ser Barristan on how to get the Smallfolk under control enough to move the massive parties that are coming this way through the city to get to the Keep, and how to keep them safe from the rowdy crowds; of which had only grown rowdier in the days past as they had paraded the bodies of the Last Dragon’s through the streets like they were some kind of mummers show on wheels.

Stannis had argued with his brother about the action, how it would do nothing but cause more division among the Smallfolk but his brother had been adamant. Robert wasn’t able to process that there were still naturalists in this world, who believed them to be no more than poorly trained Usurpers; and so far Robert had done nothing more than prove them absolutely correct in their opinions that the Baratheon’s were not suited to the crown, that Robert should not be able to settle his fat arse on the Throne, as it was not worthy – and they were correct. Robert had done nothing but create debts they couldn’t repay, enemies they couldn’t fight and hunger they couldn’t feed. Leaving the wealthier houses like the Tyrell’s, Lannister’s and Martell’s to garner favor with Smallfolk all over the Seven Kingdom’s. If any of them made a bid for the crown in the coming years they would have more support than he supposed Robert understood.

“Renly.” He greeted his brother, turning his back on the lifeless forms behind him.

“I thought I would find you here. Well – not here – but somewhere equally gloomy and dim.” Renly had begun his normal teasing and taunting of Stannis and Robert like they were children almost immediately upon entering the Keep. Robert remained mostly too intoxicated to care, though his children found him hilarious, but Stannis had tried to steer clear of his younger, less serious brother. He had heavy work to do around the Keep, and could not afford the time to be distracted by Renly’s antics.

“Really Brother, you seemed to positively run from the feast, was my presence so terrible?” As much as Stannis would like to affirm that idea, they both knew that wasn’t the reason why Stannis had made such a hasty exist, taking Ser Davos with him. The Queen and her children had been especially trying that evening, though almost every feast that Stannis had been present at they were insufferable, this one in particular had been too trying on the nerves and Stannis had nearly taken up drinking as Robert had to put away their petty squabbling and Lannister pride. The Lannister banners had been seen, they were to arrive sometime in the evening and that left the Queen in a particularly good mood, which means that everyone else was left to deal with their misery over her good mood. She had spent the evening lamenting tales to three little Lions about their Grandfather, how he would come and fix everything.

Stannis could only take so much crowing from Lannister’s and had excused himself to do some work, leaving Renly and Robert alone with their Goodfamily. Renly must have followed him from there. Renly came to a striding stop next to Stannis and stared at the corpses himself, his lip curling in on itself, Renly was much younger than Stannis, and a great number of years younger than Robert. He hadn’t seen open combat like they had, just small battles with bandits and upstarts, and most of those ended quietly. None of them ended like what was placed in front of them.

“I imagine the Gods aren’t to happy about this.” Was all he said, before turning his back on them as well, not being able to stand the sight. “I would say tonight was rather enlightening, wouldn’t you brother?” He continued. Though his voice at a much lower volume.

“In what way do you mean?” Stannis asked, pressing his lips thin, wondering if his brother had seen so plainly what he saw.

“Robert does not look so well.” Renly said at first, with a genuine wrinkle between his eye. Anyone with clear vision, or even that of a one-eyed man could see that Robert was not in great health. He lost his breath while walking upstairs, he drank enough that the whites of his eyes were always a shade yellow and bloodshot. He sweat through his silks sitting down and swayed uneasily on his feet when standing. Maester Pycelle had been seen bringing him many potions and salves throughout the last couple of weeks as his brother suffered through a summer cold.

“He couldn’t possibly be well, he drinks too much, he spends his time in the company of questionable women and he hasn’t properly exercised since Rhaegar fell at the trident.” Stannis spoke bluntly to his brother.

“He cannot last like this.” Renly sounded pained. Stannis felt something stab in his stomach at the expression on his brother’s face, his mouth pulled down and his eyes sad.

“I have tried to speak to him Renly, he does not hear me – be it willingly or not.” Stannis spoke true, he had tried to lure his brother to the yard to do some practice, he had tried to forbid servants from bringing his brother Ale first thing in the morning – everything he tried failed. The only one who could make him see sense was Jon Arryn, who would come down from the Tower of the Hand to scold his Foster son on occasion.

“The kingdom is doomed if it is left to Joffrey.” He spoke plainly, though at a whisper. Though there was no where in the Keep where there weren’t ears, so it mattered not. It’s not as if everyone in the Keep wasn’t thinking it, watching the boy gallivant about boasting of his prowess and watching him cower on the field, how he clung to his mother like a child still on the breast, all three children did.

“Did they get nothing from us?” Renly asked, sounding a bit exasperated. Renly treated his nieces and nephews fairly, a little less playfully than he treated Shireen – though thinking of his sweet daughter made his heart ache from home. Her mother should be bringing her South for the Tourney, he longed to see her – he had spent the day letting Joffrey show him about, allowing Tommen to introduce him to veritable audacious amount of animals he had, from the smallest furriest mouse to a large orange tom-cat, and a fiery bird in a cage. Myrcella had spent most her day in lessons, learning to sew and dance and things that a girl her age was meant to learn if she was to be a Great Lady, though Stannis had been firm that his daughter would learn houses, politics and strategy before dancing and harping. At his younger brothers words he found that Renly assumed what most assumed, that the children had merely been strongly favored toward their mothers side. It was what Stannis himself had assumed when he saw all of them, golden haired and green eyed – though The Kingslayer had hazel eyes, and the Imp had a set of mismatched atrocities, the Queen herself had green eyes. He looked for Robert’s strong nose, his bronzed skin, his build, and found none. And for a while he was able to tell himself it was all due to genetics, but then – as it were, as it always was, he grew suspicious.

“Brother.” He laid a hand on Renly’s shoulder. “Come to my solar with me. We have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own GoT or ASoIAF, I just borrow the lovely characters. 
> 
> Drop me a review!! 
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> The next Update will likely be on June 1st! 
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> STILL LOOKING FOR A BETA! PLEASE LET ME KNOW BELOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED, THIS PERSON WILL NEED TO BE AVAILABLE FOR BOTH EDITING AND IDEA BOUNCING!


	3. Chapter Two

So Comes Snow After Fire 

Part Two 

Lyliana 

“This was the way he had to go; he had no choice. He had never had any choice. He was only a dreamer.”   
―  **Ursula K. Le Guin,** [ **The Lathe of Heaven** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/425872)

______________________________________

Dana found Ned exactly where she thought she would find him, haunting the crypts. 

There were no such dark, dingy things in Dorne. In Dorne the crypts were above ground, gated and decorated in flowers, paintings and small trinkets, they were places of worship and love. Where families could go to see their loved ones and celebrate their life. It was one of many things that she missed about Dorne. There was no place like Dorne, and if Dorne ever had an opposite it was Winterfell, as far north as one could see before they found The Wall. 

When she had first been brought to the crypts in Winterfell, she had felt like there were many legged creatures crawling about her skin. Or as if one of the still stone statues was going to reach out and snag her. She had tucked into Benjen’s side like a child because she didn’t understand why they buried their dead in such sadness; stone effigies like poltergeists with what was meant to be peaceful expressions trapped in time, unable to age or move forward from the year in which they died. 

This was where Dana and Ned  held all their meetings, where other ears were not meant to be. When she could not find Ned Stark in his solar, in the yard or in court, and she wanted to avoid asking Lady Stark - she knew where to find him. Lady Stark did not often come to crypts, only on the nameday of some passed Stark relative, she mostly stuck to her faith and saw the crypt as a graveyard. Lord Eddard, however, seemed to find comfort in the crypts and could be found down there writing his letters, reading the inscriptions on the tombs, and sharpening Ice with a wet stone. Today she found him as she had found him countless times before, kneeling before his sister’s stone effigy as if in silent prayer, but experience had taught Dana that he was just deep in thought. She did not think that Ned Stark prayed. 

“Lord Stark.” She addressed, coming to a stop on the worried stone a few feet from him. She was still in her working clothes, as much as she wanted to trade them for her night clothes – the day's work was not yet over, as there was planning yet to do. 

“Do not call me that here Dana, you know this.” His head unfurled from it’s hung position and looked up at his sister before standing to his full height, towering over Dana. She had watched him grow into the man he is now, from the boy he had been when he stumbled up into the Tower of Joy and came into manhood. 

“How is she?” There was only one “she” they spoke of. Dana, in all her years at Winterfell, was never allowed much time around the other Stark children as Lady Stark had forbidden it. When they had ridden into Winterfell all those years ago, Lord Stark had already practiced the lies he was going to tell and Dana had practiced them as well. She was a simple midwife in Dorne that the babe’s mother had procured before dying in childbed, she had approached Ned Stark about his child and feeling honor bound that this midwife had been taking care of his child, he took her back to Winterfell. 

Dana settled into Winterfell surprisingly well. She had found that when people learned of her skills she was needed everywhere, all at once; through Winterfell and Wintertown her hands were busy with flesh and blood, duty and healing - but her main priority of course had been The Princess that was Promised – a promise she had made to a prince before, who had knelt in her doorway and asked for her assistance in the birthing of what he thought was his son. She spent her days delivering babies into the world, even though at first the Northerner’s had looked at her with nothing but suspicion, the first babe she delivered had gone just as the one she had delivered this very morning: well and healthy. She corresponded with the pregnant women of Winterfell and Wintertown and advised them on how to have healthy pregnancies, avoid having children if they did not want them, and helped them care for their babes after their births.

Beyond that she had brought her kitchen skills as well, and medicinal skills. She wasn’t the most trusted woman in the North, but she had been accepted as a foreign guest who was here to stay. 

Lady Stark had believed the lie they told, believed it to this day, that Ned was honor bound to give her a home and the belief that Dana was a simple Dornish midwife – but that didn’t stop Lady Stark from pushing her resentment onto Dana, who had blown into her house like an unforeseen sandstorm. But the youngest of the three Starks enjoyed her, as she enjoyed them. Sneaking them treats, helping the Lady Arya hide from her harp lessons, and telling the Little Lord Bran stories of Dornish Knights and the ladies they saved. Dana had been lucky to have a strong education, but even as a Bastard herself she was given the option of choice. It was her decision to play the harp, learn to heal, learn to dance – she was not forced to do so until her fingers bled or she felt failure like Lady Arya. 

Lady Stark found her telling little Rickon the story of the founding of Dorne and snatched the Little Lord away, all the while her expression was that of a woman who sucked a lemon that was right at its prime.

It seemed as though Dana and Lord Stark had a standing monthly reservation in the crypts where they could talk about Lyli - her progress and their great secret, that they could only share with one another. Themselves and Benjen, when he came to visit. But his ranger visits called him farther from Winterfell every time he left. 

“She is well, asleep now after some frenzied pacing and unladylike language.” Dana told him. Letting the tired energy of the day wash over her. 

"I should not have allowed this to happen,” Ned said, letting his own stress show in deep lines around his mouth and eyes. "Fake an illness," he abruptly instructed.

“And give Lady Stark a reason to suspect anything? No. Send the girl South but bring her back to me in one piece.” Dana ordered. She and Ned seemed to have their own duties to fulfill when it came to Lyliana. Lord Stark in charge of her secret and Dana in charge of her growth. It was another unspoken agreement, they had many of them. Sometimes passing each other in the halls with knowing looks. The only thing that saved the rumors from spreading that she was the mother of Lyli was their obvious difference in looks and Dana’s age. She was already a woman of thirty when Lord Stark had come upon her in the tower, now she was forty and six, older than Lord Stark himself. 

“She was never taught the ways of the South.” Ned admitted. “When we began to teach Robb, Theon and Sansa the houses, etiquette and ways Catelyn had sent her to learn accounting.” 

A large part of contention between Dana and Ned was Ned’s allowed treatment of the supposed bastard daughter. Dana knew that Ned had grown to love Catelyn, came to appreciate her in all her motherhood and love that she had for her family. But one thing the Cold Fish didn’t have was empathy. She could not love a motherless child. Ned didn’t want to disturb the ground more than he already had in regards to his wife. 

When Lyli had nearly died of the pox as a child Dana had spent day in and day out praying. The Lady Stark had done nothing but guard her own son; showing little to no regard to the babe, when arrangements were being made for a plot in the crypts the Lady had suggested, in no uncertain tone, that they should bury her somewhere else – further away from where her father would one day rest. Dana and Lady Stark had never been able to get along. Though they did not see much of each other anymore. It was not as if Lyli was a babe anymore, she did not need Dana with her constantly. 

“I have been teaching her.” Dana admitted. “I am from farther South than any of you here, but I can read a book just as well. Our lessons will have to be sped up is all, let her go South, see her homeland.” Dana said, though she feared for the girl enough she knew that it would do them no good to keep her hostage at Winterfell, not when she could meet a Knight who may accept her, or a path that may follow her to a greater future. 

Eddard Stark had never introduced his bastard to the world. As she was hidden away during feasts and parties it did nothing but cause the gossip to weave like ivy, she had heard all the rumors in her time in the market’s in Wintertown.

Rumors that the bastard was horribly disfigured or a great beauty. That she was as blonde as a Lannister or a redhead like a Tully. Those who had actually seen her had only one thing to say:  _ “She looks like Lyanna” _ – Dana imagined the rumors were only worse in the South. 

“I will teach the girl all she needs to know, we will maintain contact by raven and you and your bannermen will be there to protect her. Besides, Lady Stark has sheltered Arya and Sansa too much – it will do them well to have their sister there to protect them.” 

“Protect them?” Ned didn’t look up. 

“They need to know more Ned – to see the world not just from their mothers eyes.” 

Ned was silent for a few beats of her heart. She sniffed the air, the cold burning the inside of her nose, her hands starting to grow cold. 

Ned spoke again. 

“How will I explain them?” 

Them being the biggest elephant in the room. Lyliana’s pale entrancing lavender eyes. 

“We will think of something. We always do.” 

  
  


* * *

Lyli tumbled down the halls of Winterfell, smiling at those that she passed and giving solemn nods to people who didn’t usually grace her with a smile in return. She was a bustling person in nature and everyone in Winterfell knew that. Unlike her siblings, namely Robb, who could be found sleeping the morning away when not called – Lyli was up the roosters. She spent her mornings training in the yard when the sun had not yet come up, and then she would change and wash up and head to the kitchens – where she was stumbling too now. She had put on her kitchen slippers and a grey high necked dress, over it she was trying to tie her white apron and adjust the kerchief on her head. 

She had promised before going to dine with the Stark’s last night that she would join Dana in the kitchens to prepare pies for the day, and if she didn’t keep that promise Dana was sure to wake her extra early later in the week for a different chore. Dana was a big believer in chores and assignments, routine and knowledge, she would say “nothing is beneath you.” And that included bustling down with the rest of the kitchen staff to make pies. 

The kitchens were not bustling this early, as the Stark’s still wouldn’t be served for another two hours, so she was met with the sight of Dana who was carefully using a large spoon and adding flour to a large bowl. In front of her was a basket of brown chicken eggs and some sweet apples. Wordlessly she approached the table, picked up a paring knife and began to peel the apples. 

Lady and Lord Stark were fond of the apple tarts they were making, the spices reminded Lady Stark of home and the apples were from the Stark’s own glass gardens, and the trees that had been there for generations. Lyliana had grown up eating these apples, her father carrying her upon his shoulders so she could reach the higher branches to swipe an apple to munch on. They were sweet memories that she would cherish well into adulthood. Now she spent her time in the kitchen, making the tarts. 

“Did you sleep well?” Dana asked. Dana had spent the night in Lyli’s room – which was not uncommon, though had become more infrequent since she was no longer a child. She had felt her slip into the bed when the moon was high in the sky, she had heard her blowing out the bedside candle (as she did every night), closing the curtains and shuffling things around before slipping into the featherbed with Lyli. Though Lyli had awoken without Dana, she had come into the early morning with Rickon snuggling into her. It was her usual morning of sneaking out of her own bed to change. When she had gone back to change into her kitchen attire the little tuft of red hair was still sticking just above the blankets. 

“Not as well as I would have liked,” she admitted. She peeled the skins off the apples in long spirals, leaving them to be fried later and then rolled into sugar for treats for the children at the colony. She took a larger knife over a wood block and began to cut the apples down to bite sizes. 

“I haven’t felt you roll in your sleep so much since you were a babe.” Dana said, in a voice that told Lyli they were about to be taking a stroll down memory lane. “When you were a babe I would take you from the nursery- “ Lyli blinked, she had never heard this story before. Very little of her time as a babe was shared – mostly because it re-opened old wounds for Lady Stark that bled upon all the happiness in the family, leaving her frowning and brooding, cold. Even Rickon, as young as he was, knew to leave his mother alone during these times. 

“I would come up from the room I was given and steal you away. I would take you to lay in my bed. In Dorne it is most unusual for babe and mother to be separated overnight. Usually the babe sleeps in a cradle in the bedroom of its mother and father or it sleeps in the same bed with its mother and father, so the mother may nurse in the night. I would keep bottles of goat milk warm and wait until all the castle was asleep and sneak up and get you. I would take you to my bed, snuggling you under the covers. I didn’t care if you kicked my ribs the night away.” Dana elbowed her in the side now, Lyli felt her eyes misting embarrassingly. It was not often that she heard tales of before she could remember.

“One night, I was coming up to steal you away, like I always did. And when I came to the nursery there was another figure there. It was your father, leaning over your crib whilst you slept away. He spoke to me, telling me that he knew I had been taking you, and I feared that I was in trouble. Robb was with his mother, sleeping in her heated room and you were here, sleeping, swaddled in blankets. So I explained to him my reasoning. I said ‘Lord Stark, Lord Robb sleeps with his mother, in the warmer rooms. The servants do not come in here to light the fires and in my country, babes and their mothers are not separated. They share warmth and body heat in the cool Dornish nights, there is no reason for her to be cold.’ Your father looked upon me, concerned. He took the furs from his back and placed them under you, swaddling you and he took you away. I thought at first that he was upset with me, that I had overstepped my bounds. Later I learned the truth: He went into the room that used to be your Uncle Benjen’s and laid upon the bed there, and you with him. And every night that Lady Catelyn forbade you from the warmth of their room and the chills settled into the walls your father came and took you away to share in his warmth elsewhere.” 

Lyliana felt a warm tear hit her palm, where she was still holding an apple flat with one hand, and a knife in the other. All her life she had been a motherless child, with the love of her father in secret. She knew that things were the way they were because she was not proper, not right – been told by Lady Stark and Septa Mordane that her birth never should have occurred; and yet to hear these stories of unfettered love made her heart weak with love. 

“Your father loves you very much my dear, though I know you think it complex and restrained, - conditional - but it is not. Your father’s love for you does not come with conditions. I worried for it myself, as I rode to Winterfell, I knew that people of the North were stern, and Lady Catelyn would be very upset with your father, but it did not deter him – though he tries to placate her, you should know of the truth. I watched your father bar himself in the sick room, when they were sure you were not going to make it. He tied a cloth around his face and he rocked you while I prayed. I prayed day in and day out until my knees were bleeding and sore - and finally the Maester said you were well, and all the little red spots on your body were gone.” She felt a dry, flour colored finger brush a spot on her cheek where she knew there was a perfectly round, peach colored scar on her cheeks from the pox. They dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks like freckles, but she knew the truth. “Day in and day out your father sat with you as you coughed, vomited and sneezed your way to perfe ct a gain. And then he finally came out when you were healed and decreed how you would be treated from now on, you would be loved the same, treated with dignity and respect. From that day forward the nursery was as warm as Lady Stark’s room.” 

Dana took a dry towel from her belted waist and dried Lyli’s face with it. 

“He worries for you, riding South, knowing that you are so kindhearted and gentle, you could be fooled easily or tricked – though I know I’ve taught you better than that. Don’t stop chopping those apples, these tart’s do not make themselves.” Lyliana picked up chopping again, Dana letting her keep her dignity from crying and not teasing her over it. 

“So now, instead of talking of trivial rumors and dresses, we will speak true. You will need to be presentable and aware during your time at the capitol, we will speak upon those who are in power, those who you will meet, and those I wish you to avoid. Your father has hopes of you finding some Knight to come to save you, present you with an honorable living as father’s are wont to do. Your mission is not marriage, it is survival.” 

* * *

Robb looked up at his father from where he was meant to be practicing his sums and accounting, f ound his father doing the same thing he had been doing for the past hour  and  looked back down at the rows of numbers in absolute frustration. Sums were the worst. 

He had long since ended lessons with the Septas and Maester and had started shadowing his father more and more in his daily duties, now the only lessons he had without his father were Geography and hosting, which his father had been teaching him. Now he spent his lesson time going over history books, accounting, and letters that his father received. As Warden of the North he received notices and letters all throughout the North outlining the problems of every Keep. His father spent most of his day thinking of solutions, sending aid, approving decisions and sending correspondence. 

His father had been reading the same scroll for some time now, he had seemingly read it over once and was again reading through its contents for a third or fourth time now. 

Robb cleared his throat, hoping that his father would take the hint that he had been sitting in awkward silence for a bit too long, waiting for instruction. He had been sitting with his father for some time. His father did not look up. Robb wondered if some foul creature landed on top of Winterfell if his father would look up then. He knew it was a letter from Jon Arryn, they were always marked with his house seal and he had a very distinctive script, so heavy handed that it sometimes bled through the paper. 

Robb turned to the sound of a heavy swift knock on the door, Ser Rodrik entered the room, one meaty hand holding a tray with three goblets on it and a pitcher of water. He set it down on the corner of the desk, and his father had looked up. The shadows under his eyes seemed to grow, expand and give birth to a breath of wrinkles on the side of his face and mouth where his lips were creased into a frown. That is how he usually looked these days when his face came away from a letter sent by the Hand. 

“What news comes from the capitol?” 

Ser Rodrik took the empty seat across from Ned and poured them all water, there were also slices of toasted brown bread on the table and a little bowl of jam. Robb helped himself. He was not hungry but he often found himself at a loss of what to do during these moments. More frequently during his studies now men were coming to speak with his father, normally his father would normally tell them to return another time, but lately Robb was included on these correspondences. Robb knew it was part of his learning to be in the room during these discussions now and yet he found himself uncomfortable with a lot of what is discussed. 

Growing up he knew that things were not as the staff thought, but they were also not as the smallfolk thought. Opposite extremes, Lyli would tell him. The staff thought the world of the King’s family and all of the South, even though they loved their Northern ways they all grew up as the children of staff, who had served the previous Lord and Lady of Winterfell. The staff would whisper stories of how the King treated his wife to rooms of gold and gardens full of roses from Dorne. That he was still a warrior, despite his ageing, and that he was leading troops of Red cloaked men to control the smallfolk of the South. But then, the smallfolk in Wintertown talked too – they whispered of a drunken leacher, a man too fat for his horse and too deep in his cups to care, a Kingdom being run into the ground – and somehow, all these things seemed to be true. 

To his Father, King Robert Baratheon seemed to be a mix of exasperating and uninspiring stories these days, all of these tales of him came pooling into his father's solar for him to hear. In those moments he did not know what to do, he didn’t feel like he was in a station to frown like his father, but he also didn’t want to try to keep an optimistic smile because most things sounded bleak. 

“Lord Arryn writes that Robert is finally on the healing end of his cold, he is back to doing his daily duties instead of spending days abed.” To Robb, it sounded like he spent most of his days abed regardless. “He also says that Joffrey will lead his first troop of Knights through Kingslanding during the parade and he has sent me the formalized guest list for the King’s Nameday Celebration.” 

“How many Houses are they expecting?” Ser Rodrik asked. 

“Too many.” Ned rubbed between his temples. “We have the Dornish and more of their Southern houses, the Tully’s and their kin, the Arryns, the Lannister – all of them – to name a few.” 

“The Dornish and all of the Lannisters? That sounds like a combination for punishment.” Robb watched Ser Rodrik chuckle, his armor making jingling noises. When his father was frowning, usually Ser Rodrik was laughing. 

“You jest too much.” Though his father had a ghost of a grim smile on his lips. Not knowing what to do Robb shoved more bread in his mouth. 

“News of the Queen?” 

“She is in good health, is all it says, as normal. Though it does say that Jaime Lannister will be returning for the Kings Nam-“

“The Kingslayer.” Robb dropped a jam covered piece of bread in his lap and then brushed it off, Grey Wolf bound forward, seeing wayward food and gobbled it down and looked up expectantly, though Robb wasn’t looking at him. Rodrik and Father were staring at him like he had grown multiple heads or had jam spread across his face like a child. “I’ve heard tale of him.” He says. 

His father was looking at him oddly, his eyes were creased and his mouth was straight but it was not a frown, Robb would almost think that it was a worried look. For what, he did not know. 

Rodrik huffed through his nose, with his mouth closed it sounded a bit like a bull was having a good laugh. “And what tale have you heard?” Rodrik was one of the great warriors in the yard that Theon called an old rag woman, because he was quite the gossip and he loved a good battle story. He could draw a crowd that filled the yard with his tales, Robb had fond memories of being a child, an arm around Lyli as they listened to the great story from the Rebellion until his Lord Father broke it up with a good natured smile. 

“That he slayed the Mad King, that he wields a large blade and cannot be bested in one on one combat.” Robb said, feeling all the more like Bran when he read about some Knight or another and was in the yard to tell them of the experience. 

“Well then a tale you have heard my son.” Rodrik said, Robb looked at Ned who was staring resolutely out the window of the Solar. “A tale is just that, a tale. I know for a fact that Jaime Lannister can be bested in one on one combat.” 

“You know this how?” Robb asked, leaning forward. 

“Ser – “ Ned tried to interrupt, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he was about to either get a nosebleed or trying to fend off a headache. 

“Well, I know of a tale myself. One evening during a tournament some lifetimes ago, a young Jaime Lannister challenged the Great Wolf of the North to a duel. He thought that because he was smaller, and trained by white cloaks, that he would best the man. So in front of all, he jumped out to challenge him and within one minute, before anyone could place a bet, your father had the blonde boy on his arse. In the mud, no less. The look on his twin’s face could bring mountains down but he took the defeat gracefully, as gracefully as a Lannister could, bowed to your father and scurried back to his.” 

Robb stared at his father, awestruck. He would never hear battle stories from his father, he learned that lesson when he was younger, his father was not a man who wanted to talk of jousts, battles or fights. There was not enough mead in the world to get him to tell even one tale of fighting in Robert’s Rebellion or the uprising of the Greyjoy’s . He had heard tales enough from Jory and Rodrik, from the other men in the yard of his father – the man before him now, wielding his greatsword in battle, even sometimes without it and beating some of the best.

Though he had grown used to these stories cropping up every now and again, they would never cease to amaze him. His father. Pride welled high in him. 

“We were but children then, Rodrik. I’m sure, since then that the Kingslayer has improved much on his skill, just as we have with age.” There was that look again on his face. The one that showed worry. 

“He must have, he slayed the King.” Robb said absently, rubbing a cheek absently feeling the hair coming in on his cheeks. His mother had come to him that morning telling him that he needed to shave. There were a few Southron looks that she valued, and a clean shave was one of them. Although his father could often be found without a clean shaven face. He looked up from rubbing his cheek and found that both Ser Rodrik and his father were staring at him. 

“You do know .. how he slayed the King, do you not son?” His father asked, his eyes gravely serious. 

Robb thought back. He had heard the term Kingslayer in many different tones, some in reverent, and some in bitter, unworthy tones – so he could never really tell. But that was the response to all things Lannister in the North. But as he thought of it, racked his brain for answers – he realized that he never really knew, and couldn’t think of how he could have possibly done it. His father and Ser Rodrik must have seen him trying to do the math in his head, because next his father, in a slow tone asked, “Son..” 

“How could he have, Father if the Kingsguard – “ 

“Robb, It’s time you heard the truth.” 

* * *

Lyli watched as Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her chair under the gaze of Septa Mordane. The Septa was giving Lyli the stink eye and gracing Sansa with a smile. Arya stabbed at her embroidery hoop and glared at the Septa, not backing down. They had been embroidering in silence for some time now. Lyli had been dragged up from the kitchens to join them despite Dana’s objections to the situation, as she had been busy telling Lyli all about the Baratheon’s. 

Septa Mordane stood with her arms crossed over her bust and a disapproving frown on her lips, though Lyli guessed that perhaps that was her natural resting expression. Perhaps as a babe she was only given curdled milk. 

Of all the women in the castle who turned their noses up at Lyli, the Septa was the greatest one. Lady Stark had to, in the very least pretend to tolerate Lyli for Ned’s sake, but Septa Mordane had no such restrictions. For as long as Lyli could remember the woman in the grey frock had followed her with severe eyes and a tight frown. When she was learning about the female body The Septa was the one to tell her that her breasts and hips were growing larger because of the lustful blood in her veins. When she was learning her scripting the Septa wracked her knuckles with a measuring stick every time her quill slid too far or a letter was not perfect. When they learned to dance the Septa had tightened her corset so tight that she had nearly fainted dead away. 

She was also the one responsible for telling the younger children to stay away from Lyli. While Arya, Bran and Rickon didn’t seem to care about Septa Mordane’s opinion – Sansa certainly did, which was why her own sister, half of her blood, was curling her lips at the sight of her Lyli embroidering a yellow flower on dark blue cloth, something for one of the new babe’s that was in the Freefolk village. 

The door opened and Lady Stark came in, Bran trailing behind her. Seeing her, Lyli leapt and curtsied. She was the only one in the room required to do so. Sana and Arya were blood daughters and the Septa was – well – a Septa, and need not curtsy or bow to anyone. Lyli, however, being lower born and having no title must curtsy to Lady Stark whenever she entered a room and if she was being presented to her. It was not something Lyli resented, in fact, it was just another one of the things she had grown used to. Like not always being able to eat with the family, and not going to feasts – it was part of her life, and she must accept it.

That was the lesson that Dana had instilled in her since she could walk and speak, that though her station was low – she was not. She would bow only as low as needed, she would curtsy just so, but she was as human as Lady Stark, though she may not be as pure in blood as Sansa – it mattered not. She was a warm blooded human just like everyone, and no one deserved to be treated less, but you could not account for the behavior of others – only live your life to it’s best extent even when that meant living in your station.

Oftentimes, Lyli day dreamed that she, like Dana was born in Dorne, that she could be a Bastard in Dorne. Dana was baseborn in Dorne, but she was able to be educated, marry who she wished or no one at all, she had her own money and agency, she studied baking, midwifery, and language and culture – despite having no father she was no less an independent entity than anyone else. In Dorne, when they bowed, it was because they wanted to. 

Lady Stark motioned for her to continue to stand and gestured for Arya and Sana to join her, she lined Bran up after Arya and stood in front of them, hands tucked into the long sleeves of her fur lined overdress. 

“As you all know, the Kings Nameday celebration is coming up. After extensive talks with your Lord Father we have decided that the four of you will be travelling south with him.” From beside her she heard Sansa gasped and watched her go as red as her hair and resisted the urge to groan while keeping her face surprised, as she had already learned of such last night from Dana. Sansa could be a bit silly, not having grown out of childish dreams of marrying a Prince and living as Queen. Though Sansa actually had a chance, it wasn’t the type of life that Lyli would wish on her sister. So in a way, Sansa had every right to dream – Lyli just wished she dreamed for something outside of marriage. Their father had tried to get her interested in other things, like geography or writing, but Sansa only knew the houses of her potential suitors and didn’t write anything outside of her journal. 

Not for the first time, Lyli felt a pang for her sister. Under Lady Stark’s wing she had missed the lessons that Dana had passed to her, and even Arya – about freedom of choice and the importance of finding passion outside of another person. Perhaps it was because Arya was a tomboy, and Lyli was a motherless child so they needed those lessons more than most. But Sansa had done nothing but dream under the wing of Lady Stark, she had been sewing a wedding dress since she was ten and woke every day hoping she got her Moon’s blood. Though, Lyli wished she could warn her that it was just horrible cramping and nausea and the craving of salty meats. Lyli could not even speak to her sister, Sansa thought her bad luck or cursed – something that she didn’t want to go near. It made Lyli’s heart ache. 

“Now, we do not have as much time as I would like to get you ready. Just over a fortnight before I bid you to leave, and you will be gone for quite some time. There are lessons that must be taught quickly; but this one will be the first: You are from the North. You represent the North. You represent your family. The symbol you wear on your cloak is not just for show. If you go South and you behave in any other way than a perfect representation of the North and gracious to your hosts you are doing a disservice to us all, and all of those who depend on us. Your father will be with you, as will Ser Rodrik, Ser Roose Bolton, and Lady Maege Mormont as well as some of our other bannermen, you will know all who will be part of your party soon enough. Within the next two days I need you all to complete some tasks.” 

Lady Stark paced as she spoke, she stopped first, in front of Bran. “You will train every morning with Ser Rodrik, you will perfect your riding and you will learn how to carry our Banner. You will be looking to squire, this is something you will meet with your Father with for further instruction.” 

She stopped next in front of Arya, “You will get your hair trimmed, you will take a bath every night, you will be with the Septa for your lessons, no exceptions. I don’t want to see you in the yard sparring, I don’t want to see you in the nook bothering the ravens, I don’t want to see you bothering the kitchen staff, you will go to your lessons and dress fittings so that you will look and behave appropriately in the South.” 

She came in front of Sansa, who looked up at Catelyn with large, blue hopefully eyes. Like Catelyn was going to deliver her unto the heavens or tell her that her white knight has arrived to take her away. “Sansa. You must get your dresses fit. We need a new chest made up for you, your father is having fabric brought. The Septa and I would love to hear your ideas. We need to make you some Southron dress. There will be many a suitor there, and you, above all else, must behave in a way fitting of the North. You will come to your lessons, you will learn the ways of the South and you will join me in my Solar for a morning reading of letters.” 

Like her feet were lined with lead or steel, she drug herself in front of Lyli, her eyes, where they were warm pools of ocean water to her children they grew as dark as the murky streams near Winterfell as they tended to do when they fell upon Lyli. “Snow.” 

“Lady Stark.” Lyli said, biting her bottom lip. Feeling again like a child being scolded by her, despite the fact that she had not yet spoken. 

“You will get with your …. Dana. And acquire fabric for a summer wardrobe, some will be provided for you, but not enough. You will need to work with what is in our stores, I know Dana can assist you. You will also need to make sure you are in all of your lessons, during your time in the South, I can only hope that you will not make a mockery of Winterfell and all that we stand for, you are a beacon of your fathers honesty and mercy and you will be grateful of every day you spend there. You will behave, you will keep your head down and you will be silent. Go now, and help the kitchen staff prepare dinner. I have work to do up here.” 

With that, Lyli left. Letting the door close quietly behind her. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


Barristan Selmy watched from his post. 

He always watched from his post. 

From the time he was a young man he stood at the base of those steps and watched, his eyes seeing all through his helm. He was head of the Kingsguard and there was pride in that. He carried it in his shoulders, his back and he way his sword swung from his hip. 

He was tasked with watching the Royal family, day in and day out. Therein lie the problem. There had been a certain elegance in watching Rhaegar and Elia and even the Mad King himself, up until the end with him. Their squabbles were not as public, no tantrums in the hall and yard, it was kept behind closed doors where he did not have to justify it to the people who looked at him, seeking answers and the children were a joy.

Little Rhaenys had always been a delight, chasing her cat about and playing with her games throughout the castle until she was confined to the east wing. He had not seen enough of Aegon to know anything about the boy, all he did when Barristan saw him was cry. Rhaegar had been a gentle man, he spent most of his time gazing off of the balconies down at the small folk and trying to sneak out to play his harp. 

He had loved Elia, in their own way, in the beginning. Barristan had seen it himself. The way he held her lower back gently when she was heavy with child, or picked flowers for her. But as Rhaenys got bigger, their love seemed to get smaller. It was no help that his father was slowly sinking into madness, Lannisters were prowling about and more and more problems arose within the Kingdoms. 

Despite the bloodshed of those days, in a strange way, Barristan Selmy missed them. He missed his job being just a guard, the words he heard were not always ones of madness or death – he did not have to hear the drunken ramblings of a man lost in his past, the sniping of a Queen and this – he did not have to hear this. 

“I will be King some day!” The boy raged. Though he raged from a small throne now, just a dinner chair, sulking with his arms across his chest. His mother leaned toward him, a long blonde braid swinging forward as she leaned in to comfort him. Patting him like he was a small child. 

“And so you will be, but now you must focus on your studies and spend less time in the yard.” 

In Barristan’s opinion, the boy should have spent more time in the womb. It was not as if he was any use to anyone in the yard, swinging his training sword about as if he knew to use it. It was like he was still making up the time he should have spent at the teat. Barristan didn’t used to have opinions, or at the very least, he used to suppress them. But this new Royal family brought upon a new era of Kingsguard. A new mentality. 

“I should be training, training to take down my enemies as my father has! I don’t even have my own sword yet!” This rage would continue on for some time, Barristan predicted, though he hoped he was wrong. 

“And train you will, and be as strong as your father you will – but not unless you can think as well as you can swing, what kind of King would you be if you didn’t know the truths about our Kingdom, it’s people?” 

Barristan wasn’t sure if the King knew the truths about his people, the Kingdom or even his own family. He wasn’t there now, he had taken a few red cloaks and had ordered Barristsan to watch over his family, as was usually the sign that he was going to be entertaining some whores for the evening and needed his space as to not feel the guilt of Barristan’s eyes upon him. 

“Ah! Young Nephews and beautiful Niece!” Barristan felt an irritating stab of relief at hearing the voice of Renly Baratheon, who was floating into the dining chamber as if clouds were under his feet. 

His dark hair was coiled to perfection on his head and if Barristan hadn’t known any better he would swear that the man was wearing a tint to his lips. He looked as the current King had looked when he was a child and was not bloated with mead. 

“How fare you all this evening?” He swept around the table. Kissing both Tommen and Myrcella and giving Joffrey a smile and a jaunty bow, leaving the last greeting to Cersei who turned a cold cheek for him to kiss. Following behind Renly, like a raincloud, came the Master of Laws himself. Stannis Baratheon was nothing like his siblings. His back was so straight it was as if it was braced, he walked with an elegant gold and black cane, and wore his typical frown. He was bald, unlike his brothers and his eyes stood out on his face as his eyebrows were beginning to grey from what was no doubt stress. He gave no greeting besides a nod to his good family and sat himself at the table. The servants came forward, laying down plates of roast and potatoes, and pouring yet another a full glass of wine for the Queen. 

“Uncle Renly.” Myrcella leaned forward, nearly catching her crown of blonde hair in her potatoes. “Guess what I saw today!” 

“Do tell!” Renly leaned forward too, giving the girl an encouraging smile. 

“A Stag!” 

“No! Where did you see such a beast?” He sat back, a dramatic hand over his heart. Tommen and Myrcella both began to tell the story, tripping over each other in their excitement to talk about all of the live animals being brought for the King’s Nameday celebration. They would be exhibited during the fair, and a lot of them killed and eaten over the course of the celebration. Renly egged them on with little tilts of his head, giving them his approval with his light smile. Stannis and the Queen cut coldly at their meat. 

“Uncle Stannis.” Joffrey interrupted his siblings suddenly. Stannis did not pause cutting his meat but looked up at his nephew nonetheless. 

Barristan wished he were better at reading the man, but no one truly could. He was a quiet enigma, when emotion arose it was usually anger. He could shame a man with his voice until the man was nothing but a pair of boots. 

“You must speak with Father. He insists that I spend less time in the yard and is forcing me to go to lessons.” 

Stannis still did not speak, though he eyed Joffrey like his story was not complete. When the silence became too much he let out a dry, “and?” 

“And I need to be in the yard. Though a natural born swordsman I am” – Barristan held his expression together – “I need to be with my men, my warriors, they can show me their ways. I need not learn of more geography or trivial things. I am going to be king one day!” Joffrey slammed his hands upon the table, his goblet of water nearly tipping, the table shaking, the sound of vibrating cutlery rounded the room. 

Silence reigned in the room. Not even a fork moved. Barristan pretended to stare at the wall but his eyes watered from glancing to the side. The Queen looked down at her plate, seemingly staring at nothing though he supposed she was deep in her cups. Tommen and Myrcella were staring at their brother and Barristan’s heart ached at the fear they saw there. 

Myrcella’s large blue eyes were misting over. Though no one reached to comfort her, not even her mother. Though Cersei treasured her children above all else, she had her favorite. Myrcella was on the bottom. It was no secret when Myrcella was born how much the Queen did not want any girl children. 

The two youngest children were a gentle peace in the Kingdom, and despite all things the King loved his daughter, he cherished her above all else. Where she lacked attention from her mother, she did as little girls do and looked to her Father. He was clumsy with her, near awkward on what to do with a little girl but there were those gentle moments he had spotted as the heavy set King had held his daughter's hand in the stables or let her sit upon the Throne where even Joffrey had not been allowed to sit.

“One day. But not today. You will go to your studies. You will learn your lessons, and then you will go to the yard.” 

“All in one day – “ 

“A warrior must still see at night, I would think that the amount of torches in the yard should keep you well lit and warm. You will be King one day, but that day is not today, today you are the son of the King and you, like all his subjects, will do as you’re told.” 

The conversation ended there. 

Though Barristan was warm in his armor and the leathers underneath, even he could feel the soft cold of fear on his spine at the look on Joffrey’s face. 

Barristan hoped, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, that this boy would never be king. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks go to my wonderful Beta Fierce Radiance who rocked the socks off of this Chapter. I could not have done it without them!! Thank you so much readers and reviewers, you have to let me know what you think. I'm again, hoping the next update comes on next Monday or Tuesday falling on the 8th or 9th depending. Editing these Chapters can be a monster! 
> 
> Let me know what you think!! 
> 
> Also, can I ask an ice breaker question? What is the one thing you cannot leave the grocery store without? For me, it's frozen strawberries.


	4. Chapter Three

“With the spread of conformity and image-driven superficiality, the allure of an individuated woman in full possession of herself and her powers will prove irresistible. We were born for plenitude and inner fulfillment.”   
―  **Betsy Prioleau,** [ **Seductress - Women Who Ravished the World and Their Lost Art of Love** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/294554)

* * *

Chapter Three 

* * *

Tywin took in his camp. 

The large red tents took up over a square mile of space, they still had some ways to go until they reached the capitol. Two days, maybe three. The soldiers were making light around the fire, laughing and carrying on, the nightguard were patrolling in a circle around the camp, their hands on steel. The sun had not yet set and the sky was pink and purple in the distance, orange clouds blossoming in the sky. 

His pavilion was set as it always was, a wooden table with a pitcher of water and wine sat next to three goblets and three plates of food sat upon the table. Today it was a roast pig, some brown bread and beans. He was man enough to admit that he was looking forward to a different variety of foods when he reached King’s Landing. 

The  Warden  of the West looked over his progeny, not for the first time, and wondered what exactly he would be leaving to the world. He had spent his entire life pressing his legacy. Ironing it smooth until he felt as though he could glide across it into the afterlife, knowing that his name would be left in the hearts of the men who would lead after him. 

His father never thought of legacy, no – Tytos Lanniser was a man of many words, a man who fretted amongst the smallfolk wondering about their opinions of him. Tytos spent his time at the helm of the West jumbling his way through poor investments and even poorer ruling decisions. His father had confided in him well before it was appropriate for his age, asking a child about going to battle or trade – a child who couldn’t yet read, but could understand. 

At a very young age Tywin knew his father had lived and would die a failure. He was a pitiful soul who wasted his life on thoughts of others, leaving nothing for himself or his children but the idea that they had to be more. 

When House Reyne rebelled against his father's rule, the man had fretted. He had all but covered his ears with his hands and tried to will away the problem. Instead, Tywin had led the forces batting down House Reyne until they had not even spirit left. When the reign of Tytos was over, House Lannister was reborn. He would not allow his seat, the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands to fall into ruin.

He would not allow it to decline like it had been, shamefully under his father.

He would not, under any circumstances, leave this earth until he was sure that House Lannister was secure. 

When he heard he was having twins of the Maeser he had been told it was two boys, though he had no preference as long as one was male. He was given a boy and a girl, Cersei born first. She was all but bald, with two murky eyes and a frown on her face. Jaime came second, just under half an hour afterwards, his head was covered in soft blonde curls and his own murky eyes were wide open. 

When the nursemaids came to bring him the babe’s they had accidentally put the wrong shifts around them. Jaime in light pink and Cersei in burning, ember red. He thought her the male baby until Joanna, in her post birth humor, had told him that no, he was in fact holding his daughter and not his son. 

There was no post-birth humor with Tyrion, just sadness, mourning and death. 

He did not remarry. There was no need. He had an heir, he had Cersei who he could make good allegiance with and with any lucky Tyrion would die before he had the chance to live. He would have traded Joanna for Tyrion without thought. Though, he often wondered if she would do the same. They were no romantic tale, but they had a deep love for each other, a love in which Tywin knew he would not be able to replicate. 

But, as life was wont to do – things changed – circumstances changed. War came and he chose to back the winning side. The Dragons could not be controlled, while powerful in their prime they had dwindled to an incestuous pool of just a remaining handful. He had served the Mad King until he could serve no more, until the madness had wrung out any hope for progress, and Tywin Lannister did not do failure. 

Tywin crushed the forces across the Kingdoms as his son guarded the Mad King until he could do that no longer. Jaime did not speak on what happened in full with the Mad King, he took the dishonorable name upon his shoulders and remained the Kingsguard. 

There had been disgraceful acts in-between, but that was no stranger in war. War made a monster of all men, a betrayer, a slayer – Judge and Executioner. 

Cersei married the  new  King. Jaime, to his displeasure, remained in the Kingsguard and Tyrion remained in Casterly Rock with Tywin, though he was apt to be disappointed in the drunken Dwarf he was not one to leave opportunity lying about.

Though his youngest son had no physical prowess to speak of he was one of the greater minds in the Seven Kingdoms due to his likeness of books. He was a properly good strategist and a fine accountant once he had been taught to not just spend. He had known that when he had given his son the sewage system to manage. He had seen in his disgraceful son his mental magnificence. He did not have to like him, to use him. 

He looked at him now, his youngest son, a monstrosity to look at – tipped wine into his mouth while his eyes never left a scroll. Tywin didn’t care if he drank himself dead, as long as he proved useful while he lived he was allowed to keep that life. 

His eyes drifted away from the dwarf, to the man who was pulling a stone down his blade, staring at his boots with stormy eyes. 

Jaime. 

He was both surprised and concerned when his son returned to him. Jaime had left the Kingsguard some two years ago to take up his post at Casterly Rock. He had shed the white cloak, appointed a successor in Barristan, who took the post back without complaint (though Tywin was of the opinion that Barristan never should have been replaced. Jaime, while a good swordsmen did not live up to the name of Selmy who had been demoted when Cersei ascended the throne as Queen) and returned to The Rock. 

Though it was unclear why, Tywin had deduced that Jaime must have grown sick of the King, drunk and disorderly as he was, and tired of his sister after some sort of altercation that remains unknown. Her letters remain unanswered though they come unwavering every week. 

Cersei had spent her whole life clinging to Jaime, and Jaime to Cersei. At first, Joanna had wondered if it were unnatural, but the Maesters dismissed the claim after he had called them to ensure that the children were healthy and under no outside influence. 

Then Joanna had died and with it, whatever sweet girlishness that Cersei had possessed. He knew much about his daughter, he knew that she disliked most things and above all she disliked her husband, but she wanted to be Queen. 

Now a Queen she was, to a sinking kingdom with an animal for a spouse. Jaime loved his sister, did all for her – when they were a child and they would get into trouble Jaime would take all the blame, take her scoldings and her extra lessons – though it made him no more book smart. He would fall often on the sword for her. Tywin wondered if it was his mother in him. 

He was even rumored to be in the room when Cersei’s third child, Tommen, was born while the King was off on a hunt. It was improper and Tywin had made sure Jaime knew how displeased he was with the situation. Then – like something had shifted in him, he had returned to take his post. He would one day be the Warden of the West. 

Despite being twins, Jaime looked remarkably more like Joanna than any of his other children, and behaved like her as well. Though Tyrion had a compassionate disposition, and Jaime’s nickname throughout the Kingdoms was Kingslayer, Jaime seemed the more sensitive, which both irked and confused Tywin. This sensitivity usually came out in the form of unwavering care for his sister, and a deep love for his brother, Both oft took advantage of this. Cersei knew that Jaime would be there for her at all times, would do anything to protect her – it would only be a matter of time, in Tywin’s opinion, until Jaime served greater consequences for it. He was glad his heir had returned when he did. 

“Jaime.” He called, his golden haired son looked up, blonde locks touching the shoulders of his armor, dark eyes stewing like an ocean made green rocking in his eyes, they had been stormier as of late. 

“Join me and your brother. Now.” It was not a request. Jaime placed his sword down and Podrick the squire hustled forward to remove the rest of the armor. By the time Jaime was down to his tunic and pants Tywin was seated at the table, with Tyrion, who had started to eat without him. 

He had started doing this more of late, to get Jaime used to the idea that Tyrion would be his closest advisor when he ascended positions at Casterly Rock. They would need to digest information together, in confidence and decide what to do from there. He was not immortal, and though he would hold his seat for as long as he could, and until Jaime had an heir – he would like to see his son in his seat before he’s gone. 

He sat down heavily, as if all of Westeros was weighing on his shoulders. He picked up his silver fork, ignored his wine and took a fork full of meat and beans, leading them to his mouth as if it were a chore. Jaime had spent the entirety of the march to the Capitol sharpening his sword, mowing down men in training and burning everyone with a glare and a bad attitude. Though Jaime could be lighthearted and humorous, it was usually at the expense of someone else – he had not shown that side of himself  lately . 

“A letter arrived, we have … unexpected visitors coming to the Capitol.” 

Tyrion sighed into his plate, taking a bite of his brown bread. They had talked circles around each other about the absolute mess this tourney was going to be. Too many houses with bad blood, not enough space to house them. Too many activities, too many chances for slipping or whispered conversations. Though Tywin had had a few whispered conversations of his own. 

“Whom might we be expecting now?” Tyrion asked, in a drawing tone. 

“The Martell’s.” 

“Doran?” Tyrion asked, shocked in his voice. Doran Martell had not left his seat since his sister had been killed. 

“And Oberyn.” 

Jaime looked up in surprise, his mouth even hanging open a bit. It was a shock. The Martell’s were a private and secluded people, they had taken a mighty blow during the Great War and now did not leave their own capitol. Though from all reports Dorne was flourishing, they had more exports than anyone, they drown in their own riches – they provided barges of food for the Capitol for lower rates, though Tywin had yet to figure out what the play was for that, his spies were still searching. The Dornish’s biggest problem seemed to be their ageing ruler. 

“Who will hold the chair while they are gone?” 

“Doran has two sons, Trystane and Quentyn – they will be sharing the seat until their father or uncle returns.” 

“Did the King request to see Doran?” 

“The invitation went out to their House, so it was an invitation for all.” 

“Oberyn Martell ... in the Capitol ...” Tyrion let the words dance into the air. Tywin did not like the feeling of insecurity that came with the unknown. He looked up from his plate at Jaime, to gauge a reaction. His heir looked blankly forward, his lips drawn down into a frown, his eyes squinted. 

“Jaime?” 

“The Red Viper… in the Capitol.” Was all he said. 

The tent dissolved into contemplated silence. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Lyliana swept the wooden sword behind the knees of her half-brother and shoved the foster boy away with a foot, both of them tumbled to the dirt. Robb bounced back almost immediately and brought his wooden sword back up to clash with hers, her sword met in the middle she braced her right foot forward and let her sword clash with his, dragging it down until his wrist was twisted, she swiped her left leg forward, hitting him hard in the flank, bringing him to the dirt again. 

Theon was spinning a practice spear in his hand. 

“Snow.” 

“Urchin.” She said back. She laid the sword at her feet, standing to look him in the eye, she took charge at him. She didn’t need steel to take down Theon. She dodged the first jab on the spear, and took hold of the middle of the spear, using that momentum she got from grabbing the swinging pole she vaulted herself sideways and brought her right foot to his cheek, just gazing him but enough to throw him off balance, allowing her to use her left foot to sweep his legs out from under him. Both Robb and Theon had a lot to learn. Not that she was too much further ahead of them, it was still a joy to bring them to the dirt. 

She observed the yard, Robb was laid on his back on the dirt, looking up at the sky with a smile, Theon grumbling in his own pile of dirt. 

“One more round.” Robb leapt to his feet with energy. “Live steel, you and me.” Robb tossed the practice sword to the ground and received his steel from Bran, who stood at the ready watching with wide eyes. His practice in the yard was limited because of his age at the moment. Arya jogged forward with two sword sheaths in her hands. 

“Lyli!” She exclaimed. Lyli took the sword from her right hand and felt the balance in her palms. 

“Ah, ah Snow – both swords. I’ll not be fighting you with one hand tied behind your back.” 

“You’ll lose.” 

“I’ll do it with dignity.” 

“Doubt it.” Snorted Theon. 

Lyli took the second sword as well. Equally balanced in her left hand was the twin of the sword in her right, made for her by Mikken when they learned she was ambidextrous during her time studying with him. She had made a few daggers for father, even a small sword for Arya, but she was waiting for her nameday to give the thing to her. It was skinny – but she knew her sister would love it. Mikken was one of few people who noticed talent in Lyli and didn’t let it go to waste. He told her to go to Roderik and her Father, and when she was not at first taken seriously she took to studying on her own. 

She twirled both of them in her hands, feeling the power of steel in her hands, running up her arms like little pops of lightning. She let her neck roll as she turned to face the yard again, as always – spectators gathered. Jory and Rodrik, Arya and Bran, a handful of soldiers in their practice gear, from above she felt grey eyes on her. Their father, no doubt watching the training. Though he never praised her, she knew he was proud. There was a glint in his eye that would overcome them when she put Robb down in the dirt. 

He had shown only caution when she had decided to pick up two swords, not even questioning that she had picked a sword to begin with. She was a woman, and a bastard, she would have to protect herself. She would not be another girl dead and defiled. She would not be her aunt, dead in a tower in the sand and if the time ever came that she needed to defend her home – she would. She trained with her swords, Theon’s spears and bows and a longsword like Robb, she was still training with her daggers – but soon she would be proficient in that as well. 

She spent many days alone in the Godswood, going through the drills and motions she had seen in the yard, lifting and swinging practice swords until it felt natural. Though Robb was better taught, she was the better swordsmen. They enjoyed their daily spars and bonded over them, drawing crowds from their siblings. The swordplay was like a dance for her, though she never learned how she still felt like she was dancing as she glided the swords side to side first, so their weight was distributed and then moved into position, the right sword raised higher than the left, the left poised and pointed underneath. 

Robb came at her first, his long sword cresting toward her, she bowed backwards, catching the sword between her right blade and left pushing it to the side, throwing his momentum sideways until he was forced to dance backwards, but she led this dance – so she pushed forward, leading him backwards. She released and caught the swords letting them glide through her palms, feeling the smooth hilt and the singing of live steel, catching them in her hands before pushing forward, spinning back on the ball of her foot to catch his blade again and again. 

The dance was as graceful as any dance as they shuffled across the ground. He pushed forward, she edged him back, she spun on a heel, he lunged on his toes. She felt the pulsing of the steel down to her bones, feeling her spine twisting and her hips swaying to the tune of their dance. Robb was a good sparring partner, but he was too predictable. She rotated her right blade over her head leaving the left one to the middle. 

In the corner of her eyes she caught Dana, standing expectantly with a yard of measured ties in her arms. Dress fitting. The dance would have to end.

She twisted her right wrist, locking his sword with her left sword. Now locked, it was a power struggle for who led and who followed. Ultimately, she led. Though Robb was physically stronger than she was, power in this case was more than just physical. Here, Lyli had the upper hand of greater dexterity, and familiarity with this particular move. Rotating her wrist until it forced his blade at an awkward angle away and out of his hand.

“I yield.” He said, out of breath. 

“Lyli!” Arya cheered from the sideline. 

Robb took the skin of water that was tossed to him from Bran who was excitedly chatting with Arya, holding his own practice sword. He took a deep swig, he was covered in mud, dirt spread across his cheeks. Lyli could almost hear Lady Stark shrieking in her head. The punishment that would come may be epic. 

“Another round.” Robb said to her, nudging her with his elbow. 

She leaned to whisper to him. 

“Nope. Dana wants to see me naked.”

Lyli walked away and relished in the sound of Robb choking on his water. 

  
  
  


* * *

Oberyn walked across the palace floor of the Water Gardens, nodding at the guards as he went. The open columns allowed breezes from the salty ocean air to come in, cooling his heated skin. He walked barefoot and bare chested, it was no surprise to anyone who saw him. Nudity was not something that was shied away from in Dorne. He walked with his same leisurely pace even though he truly was running late. Though running would not make him on time so instead he made his way there as he usually would. 

Flowers were blooming all over the palace, the great gardens giving life, the scent had tinted the air beautifully allowing Oberyn to enjoy his walk. He could hear the jangling of a kitchen maid coming his way, he glanced away from the flower lined paths beyond the columns to see her, he gave her a smile and she gave him a brief bow. He took an apple from her tray and proceeded, biting into the thing as he went. It was sweet this time of year. 

He had just returned from a stay at  Sunspear  where he took open forum from the people. It was a long couple of weeks hearing the problems of the people and trying to help fix them; but it needed doing. Doran had tasked him with this, part of a larger plan that he was not yet fully privy of. 

A tradition that many people who inherited the Sunchair had was to be not just a voice for the people, but also the hands for the people. He had taken the time to help rebuild shops and the school house, he had helped to bless a new sickroom and nursery, he had visited the brothels and checked upon the women to make sure they were not being mistreated. Sarella and Elia had joined him for a time, they had splashed in the water and showed him their new skills. He left them in the Water Gardens. 

He stopped in Lemonwood to collect Dorea and Loreza from their mother. Ellaria had met him outside her new home, she was set up well – her home surrounded in citrus trees, a small pond in the back. Though they tried to split times between the youngest girls evenly, it was hard. 

Not having Ellaria in his life was both a heartbreak and graceful solitude. While they had many good years together, and he regretted none of them, he understood why things had to end. They had both broken more promises to each other that could be healed. She had fallen in love, Oberyn had asked her to marry him. Things were bittersweet between them, like dark chocolate on the tongue, sweet on the tip and burnt down the throat. She had looked beautiful and tired, she was also heavily pregnant.

He had given her fresh pressed mint for her to suck on, as he knew she was prone to nausea during pregnancy, and she had gifted him with a satchel of new scrolls for him and a scarf for his head when he was in the sandy dunes. He had said a polite hello to her new partner, who had said a polite hello back – a humble citrus farmer, hair blonde under the sun, his youthful face feeling almost like a scorn to Oberyn. 

He had taken his girls back to Sunspear to be with him until he took his leave, they would go back to their mother while he was gone. None of his daughters would be in Sunspear while he was gone for their safety. 

He approached the door to his brother’s solar, nodded to the guards and entered. 

It was as it always has been. A large oak desk took up a large portion of the room and the large windows were uncovered allowing the breeze in. Vases of flowers and peeled fruit stood on stands, a deep golden rug overtook much of the room. The two chairs that sat on the opposing side of Doran were taken by Trystane and Quentyn who were both looking at their father studiously. 

Arianne had long since moved herself near permanently to the Sunspear, her fight with Doran had taken a lot out of her emotionally she said, and needed to be away. Especially since the passing of her mother, she had felt a strong distancing from Dorne and her father. 

Though it would have been to be her responsibility to oversee Dorne while they were away, she had refused to come home so now the responsibility was falling on her brothers and their closest advisors.  Doran had tried to be patient with his daughter as she charted through this seemingly rough patch. But that patience only extended so far, they had fought in sharp words and harsh tone about her future, her plans, she had not returned since. 

There was an overstuffed green chair to the right of his brother, Doran would sit in it during his time when he was not in the wheelchair, but as of late his gout seemed to be better, walking with his cane more and more, standing for longer periods of time. Though when in public he still took to his wheelchair. 

“Oberyn.” Doran drew. “I see that you have taken your time. What kept you?” He asked. Though Oberyn knew that Doran didn’t really want to know, especially considering what he had been doing, but it was always more fun to antagonize his brother. 

“The two silk embroidering ladies from the east market stand came to show me my new robes, they were so beautiful I felt as though money was not enough payment. Fortunately my body was able to sate them.” In all honesty the two sisters had been making eyes at him from that stand for many moons, and he had finally had the opportunity to bed them. One was drastically more experienced than the other and it showed. 

“Thank you for that image.” Doran responded dryly. Areo Hotah, though his face didn’t change, seemed to smile at him from where he stood stationed behind and to the left of Doran. 

“Always welcome, my brother. How fare my beautiful nephews this day?” 

Quentyn looked up from the scroll he had unraveled and gave his uncle a smile, Trystane was still looking tense, no doubt worried about making sure he absorbed as much information as possible. Trystane was younger and seemed to be at a constant state of taking detailed and thorough notes of everything he witnessed and was told, they were only able to pry the scrolls and ink from him during supper and even then it was like his hand was itching to get back to his scrolls.

Quentyn had a more relaxed smile and way about him, spending a lot of his time in the yard and with a fair amount of both ladies and men. He seemed to take after Oberyn quite a bit, which both frustrated and comforted Doran. Oberyn was taking his nephew more and more under his wing. 

“They are doing well, we are going over the trade schedule. Trystane has some interesting ideas about possible trade with the North.” Oberyn raised a brow at this, trading with the North would be exceptionally difficult; things would spoil before they arrived and their traders were not used to walking through such harsh weather. Even a Northern summer was worse than any Mid-South Winter. 

“Tell me more of this.” He said, instead of voicing his concerns. He knew from his interactions with teaching his own daughters that oftentimes they had good ideas, and his initial assessment could be wrong, or merely just needed to be tweaked. Youth did not always equal foolishness or naivety. 

“The North has an abundance of things we need. Lumber, especially oak and cherry, furs, wool - steel and herbs. It could be good for us. And as it turns out, though currently we are purchasing these from the Tyrell’s, the Tyrell’s are purchasing half of theirs from the North.” Oberyn raised a brow at this. Willas had not mentioned this. 

“Very good nephew mine. I’m sure Doran and I will be looking into this at length.” Trystane gave him a smile, a genuine one and looked down at his lap, suddenly bashful. Oberyn loved his nephews very much, he was not the father of a son – though his daughters had all the freedoms of any male, there was something about the pride of a son. Despite Doran’s ideas that Quentyn and Trystane did not have a lot of respect for him because of his perceived softness, Oberyn found that this was not true. 

His sons looked at him as if he had hung the moon. Oberyn wished that his brother looked more to his sons and noticed their adoration of him. 

“We have received word this morning that they are excited to have us in King's Landing.” Oberyn snorted. He finished his apple with two rough bites and threw it to a bowl that had an orange peel in it near the desk. 

“I’m sure they are, they will no doubt decorate our rooms in golden lions,” he spat. He took a thin dagger from his belt and began to flip it. He made eye contact with Hotah and gave a barely discernible nod. Hotah knew he would never hurt his brother, but he needed something to do with his hands before he ripped himself from Dorne, sailed the seas and did something they would all regret. 

“Oberyn.” Doran said his name in a tempered voice. 

It was not Oberyn’s choice to go to the Red Keep, but he was not going to let his brother go alone. He wished they would decline the offer, but Doran seemed to have some kind of a plan. His brother's health was on the incline, despite rumors spreading through the Kingdom – though that was by design – and this would be the best time for him to go. Doran would only say that he had some seeds to plant, but not what those seeds were or how they would be planting them. 

“The Lannisters are arriving some weeks before us our spies say they are nearly there now.” 

Oberyn growled deep in his throat. 

“Soon the rest of the South will follow, the Tyrells, possibly the Tullys. The Arryn’ and the Baratheons are based there. The North will follow.” The North will be the last to arrive, which is typical of them. Oberyn had feelings about the North that conflicted, though he knew they did not start the w ar, they had certainly fanned the flames, maybe even sparked the flint, but war had been inevitable. Though for all intents and purposes since Ned Stark had beaten down the Greyjoy’s he had not left his freezing home since then, not even to visit his dear friend, the Baratheon King. 

The last he saw of Ned Stark was of the man kneeling before Oberyn, three wooden caskets in front of him, plain brown hair falling in his narrow face. Oberyn had to be held back by the guards, the feeling of the middle of their spears pressing into his chest as he roared at the sight in front of him. Doran had to beg to have the bodies of his sister and her children back, and Ned Stark himself had sailed to bring them. He had left again that same day, which was smart – Oberyn, young and hot blooded, would have killed him as he slept. 

“Sounds like it will be entertaining.” Quentyn said, smirking a bit at his uncle. Oberyn gave him a matching smirk. 

“It will be nephew mine, it will be.” 

They were interrupted by Doran, who cleared his throat gently. Doran stood from his chair. Something he did only in the privacy of his own study or his rooms. He crossed the room, slowly but surely until he leaned by the window in the solar and let the cool air brush his face. Oberyn let his eyes fall upon the ageing of his brother, the wrinkles around his eyes, the grey that was half of his thick black hair, the way he leaned like the world was rolling around behind his shoulder blades. His brother was getting old. 

“It is time Oberyn.” Doran leaned his head up, eyes closed, sun on his face. “Before we depart there are things you should know. “ His brother breathed deeply. “Though we have planned only a few weeks in Kingslanding we know that people have gone there and never come home. My sons needs to know the truth. It is time we told them.” Oberyn swallowed, now his throat dry like he had been walking the sand with no water for days. 

He went back to that day. Narrow faced Ned Stark, three caskets. Three bodies. 

The caskets were plain boxes, not the decorated tombs they would deserved. 

The first two caskets held the bodies of Elia and Rhaeneys, preserved quickly and poorly, just enough to make the trip back to Sunspear. Their bodies still showed the horrific injuries that had put into the boxes. The third casket, smaller in size and light enough that Eddard Stark had carried it up on his own, his face had been etched in grief. Inside of the small casket was the mutilated body of a nearly unrecognizably damaged infant. 

  
  


* * *

“And who is the Master of Ships?” 

Lyli stood in her room, shivering in her nakedness. Somehow that was the least exposing part of this. 

As part of preparations for their journey South, Dana had been tasked with Lyli’s wardrobe. As Lady Stark claimed she was too busy between Sansa and Arya and yet still did not want Lyli to make a mockery of the North in any way. Dana and Lady Stark had a tense unspoken agreement. Though Dana was nothing but sugar to the Lady’s face, there were curses in other languages she used to describe Lady Stark in private. Dana and Lady Stark, though both Southron, had very different morals. 

Lady Stark had never like Lyli, barely tolerated her at this point. She saw her worth in chores, childcare and Freefolk wrangling. Though she had never voiced her displeasure to her face it was very clear through stories and actions that Lady Stark did not warm up to Lyli, and probably never would. Though Lyli had spent her whole life around the woman, and she was the mother of her siblings, the wife of her father; that was where their familiarity died. 

Lyli had keen memories of as a girl watching Lady Stark brush her Father’s hair, and then Robb’s every night after bathing - and waiting like she would get hers brushed too – instead she was sent away. Lord Stark never spoke about Lady Stark in front of Lyli, except to perhaps warn her when she was in a particularly bad mood since the original talk they had. 

When Lyli had grown older, old enough to realize that things were not going to change between her and Lady Stark she had confronted her father about it. She did not understand why a Lady who loved so much, could love her so little. Her father had said simply, “My wife is a devout and traditional woman. My love for you is enough.” 

Except, though she loved her father, it was not enough. The love of Dana made her feel whole. When she was sent away again and again, Dana had taken matters into her hands, after her bath her hair would be neatly parted and detangled. Dana would tell her stories of Dorne, The Water Gardens, Starfall, King’s Landing before the war – across the narrow sea to Pentos and Myr.

At the age of ten and one she had decided that Lyli was old enough for her own traditions. She cut a fringe in Lyli’s hair, just above her eyes. Dana said that the women of her village used to do this for fashion, and Lyli kept it up ever since, and picked up more traditions than that. Spear dancing, swimming, Dana taught her to bake and showed her potions and poultices from her own books of knowledge. She taught Lyli to read and run, when to fight and when to fly – she was the only mother Lyli knew and needed. 

It was times like this, however, when she was standing nude in the middle of her room, with the woman knelt down and a measured fabric wrapped around her ribs waiting for her gown to pinned to her like a cushion that she wondered if Sansa had these moments with her mother too – or if this was a Dana thing. 

She was pinched on her flank. 

“I said – “ 

“Monford Velaryon. Head of House Velaryon who are loyal and served the Baratheons. He has an illegitimate brother, a Waters and is known for being friendly, cautious and deceitful – which might I add, is not helpful because that seems to be how you describe everyone at the Capitol.” She was pinched again for her cheek. 

“Who did they side with during the War?” 

“Which War?” 

“Smart girl.” 

“Though the Velaryon’s said that they supported the Baratheon’s in their war effort when King Robert marched across the kingdom, it is more true that they did not get involved because they hoped that the Prince Rhaegar would survive, they were loyal to the Targaryen’s as the Baratheon ancestors had been. In the Greyjoy Rebellion their soldiers were sent and they fought firmly on the side of the King, as they had then made a permanent allegiance, or so they say.” She concluded. 

“And?” Dana gave her final prompt, leaving her hips to mark in her book the measurements and throwing at her a bundle of white fabric. “Try this on. You will have no handmaidens like your sisters, you need to be able to get in and out of your dresses.” 

Lyli reached for her brassiere, Dana slapped her hand away. 

“You wont need that.” Lyli gave her Foster Mother the hairy eye-ball. Dana had a thing about what she called “body freedom.” – though Lyli had always had a bit of shame attached to her body, since she had bloomed so quickly, Dana had no such qualms, she believed that Lyli should embrace her body, throw her chest bindings away and the brassieres with it. It was a push and pull between them. Lyli shuffled the white dress over her head and began on all the ties attached, speaking all the way: 

“Silver seahorse, green background. Their words, ‘The Old, The True, The Brave.’ They hold the seat of Driftmark and reside in the Crownlands. They don’t get along with Lannister’s or Tyrell’s.” 

Lyli did up the last tie that tied into a neat bow at her neck, the strands drifting between her exposed cleavage, the white dress was tied at the neck, extended into a v that showed more cleavage than she ever has and then fell in gentle gossamer layers down to the floor. 

Despite having been given limited resources Dana had no troubles making Lyli dresses, most of them had already been made and just needed mending. With some wheedling Lyli was able to discover that Dana had been putting together a trunk for her anyway, just in case a proper suitor came around. But the woman seemed determined to dress  Lyli  in every color that existed, and show more skin than Lyli had ever shown. 

“Okay, step out time to try on the lavender.” 

It seemed every day their schedules filled up with more things. They were invited to events before they even arrived, and though it wasn’t explicitly said that Lyli was meant to be there, it did say “And the Family of Ned Stark.” Or “The Daughters of Ned Stark.” – There was a high possibility, Lyli had theorized , that no one knew she was even coming. Though Dana had told her that she was expected. 

Her father had painstakingly kept her in the North, even when she fostered with the Mormont’s it was so very private that the Mormont’s had not had visitors in the year that she was there. Lyli knew her father loved her, she also knew he hated the speculation. While he would not speak to her about who her mother was, he was certainly not speaking to anyone else about it either. 

He was the first person to stop all gossip that may come from speculation, and when questions were asked Lyli was sent away to avoid the topic coming back up. Lady Stark’s own brother had made the mistake of speculating about Ashara Dayne in public and had apparently been given quite the talking to about respecting the dead, though Lyli had only heard this from Robb – who was known to speculate. 

She must have paused to think because Dana pinched her again, this time on the arm, she glared at the woman. 

“Okay, now tell me about the Master of Law, and for the love of the Gods be careful getting into this dress, it’s silk!” 

Lyli predicted a long evening. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Song: 

The Chain – Fleetwood Mac 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Fierce Radiance is the mastermind behind this thing. They deserve so much credit for the long hours they put into the editing and brainstorming of this story!!!! Thank you! And thank your readers! I am so thankful for such a dedicated and amazing Beta!


	5. Chapter Four

“Why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?” **  
― George R.R. Martin, [A Game of Thrones](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1466917)**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Catelyn watched the golden skinned woman stretch another line of silk, this one dyed a light pink and began to line it up another strip of fabric, taking her thin needle and bringing it to the line right under a darker shade of pink and she wanted to scowl. Instead, she kept her face neutral and looked forward, focusing on her own dress she was making. 

She swore under her breath, another tear. Her normally perfect hands were tight in the awkward air. The fabric was gossamer thin. Instead she set it aside and picked up the shawl she was making for Arya and started on that – it would be an easier task. 

She glanced over again. Dana was quick, the lighter pink was layered perfectly with the darker pink, an even lighter pink was now being stretched out and brought to the bottom of the dress, at this point the thing would have a train because of its length. They had been working in silence for some time. Catelyn narrowed her eyes in frustration as she thought of her husband. 

After all, this was all his fault. 

It had been requested that he bring all his daughters, so they could all perhaps find suitors or possible matches one day. And while Jon Arryn wasn’t the King, Ned followed his orders like a dutiful knight or a child. 

Catelyn had argued with him, he could leave the Bastard here. Most of the Kingdom didn’t even know she was a girl; but alas, one drawn look from her husband and she quieted on the subject. Besides, the girl needed a match. But there were downsides. Ned was taking the majority of her children, leaving her to have Robb and Rickon at her side and Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin. Benjen would be here as well under the orders of watching the Freefolk – but she was also being left with Dana. 

She let her eyes drift over to the woman again. She looked remarkably young for her age, having seemingly hardly aged since the first time Catelyn had seen her. She could remember the first time seeing her, on horseback, wrapped in heavy furs, her tan face standing out amongst them. She had stepped off the pony and handed Catelyn’s husband a squirming bundle. Catelyn’s world crashed down. 

She was ashamed of how she acted now, now that she had gotten older, had her own children. The jealousy she had felt toward an infant brought the shame of immaturity into her chest. But she couldn’t stand it. Still can’t. 

She had waited so long, held their boy. Been so proud and he had come through the gates her heart was pounding. 

He wasn’t her first choice – but seeing Robb, she knew she could learn to love him, to be beside him, to be with the man who she had clutched the letters of, written until her hand was cramped and sore. But it had felt for a time like he had abandoned that, like he had tossed her aside for some other woman.. 

For the most part, in the beginning, she could avoid it, she could avoid her– but then she had to see them. Not only was a Bastard child thrown in her face, now she had to deal with this foreign woman, throwing this baby in her face. But Ned had told her so often it was non-negotiable,  _ “she has no one else, Catelyn. _ ” As the child got older it became harder and harder for Catelyn to avoid seeing them. Suddenly she was everywhere, at the dinner tables, in lessons with Robb, playing in the snow, standing in the doorway with her eyes downcast, waiting for her father to come and tuck her into bed. 

Catelyn looked at that woman now; long dark hair fell in wavy sheets down her back, her high cheekbones and full lips were pursed together as she concentrated on her delicate stitch work, making dresses for Lyliana. She always concentrated like that when it came to the girl, she made the same expressions feeding her when she was a babe, teaching her to peel apples and to read when she struggled. 

“It’s beautiful.” The comment slipped out. Catelyn was proud that her voice was low and polite. It wasn’t how she felt. 

“Thank you.” The other woman said simply, “The blue you did for Lady Sansa is wonderful as well Lady Stark.” 

The dresses she had prepared for her daughters were drastically different than the ones Dana seemed to be making, while Catelyn went for barrel necks and lighter, split sleeves.

Dana had gone for a variety of necklines, ranging from modern to near scandalous, short sleeved to long sleeves, tunics and leggings to trailing gowns.

It seemed that Lyli had a whole wardrobe of new dresses, Catelyn knew some were already made. she had seen Dana about Winterfell – with long stretches of fabric, or buckets of dyeing water, measuring strips of fabric for some years now. Robb had made passing comments before that Lyli was dressmaking with Dana and therefore could not train or study like he wanted. 

Robb could be prone to pouting when he did not get to spend as much time with his sister as he wanted, having been her only playmate for too long, he still considered them so close. 

“What a lovely shade.” Catelyn continued, the dress was a spiral of pink like a rose, the high neck was done in the darkest of pink, magenta and the bottom spiraled down to a light-near white pink. 

“I believe so as well. The Lady Arya would look good in such a color, their coloring is very similar, I could make one if you like. Or even a yellow for the little Arya.” 

Catelyn took an unnoticed breath. Felt her pride settle in her stomach. She beat it back. 

“Or perhaps a similar one for lady Sansa?” 

Catelyn paused, took and unnoticed breath. 

As much as Catelyn loved both her daughters, Sansa was her pride and joy. A girl that loved all the things that came with being a girl. Arya was very Northern in her ways, and Catelyn had been told often enough that she was just like her Aunt Lyana, she had the wolfs blood. She preferred leggings and wooden swords to poetry and the harp. Perhaps she felt that way because her pregnancy with Sansa had been special. 

At the time, she didn’t think that she and Ned would ever reconcile. The gap had been so large between them. He had in almost a literal way, broken her heart. When he had come through those gates, she had been so excited. Young and foolish she had scooped Robb from his crib and raced to meet him at the gates. He looked so handsome on his horse, and she was ready to be his wife. It had taken some time, and perhaps distance had made her heart grow fonder, softened her to the idea of being with him. And in truth, she had been lonely. She had wanted her companion, her husband, she had been alone – strangers to everyone but a close few and her newborn. 

Their letters had been few and far between while he was away, and while at first it had made her more lonely, over time it made her think only of the interactions they had, how doting he had been in that short time, how his long and solemn face had been honest and strong. Despite the tragedy he had faced recently he had tried to make her comfortable. Though their start had been rough, she had been looking forward to more, committed herself to more. 

And then he rode through the gates. He had looked so powerful, so strong. His face was set as he nodded to the Smallfolk and others he passed. His cloak was thick and long, his hair had grown while he was away. He looked dirty and tired and so handsome to her, she could remember how her heart felt elated. How her heart felt so light in that moment. She didn’t notice his party behind him. Didn’t see the tan foreign woman riding behind him with a bundle wrapped to her chest. 

He had swung a leg over the horse and looked at her, a small smile lit his face and it vanished as fast it came. He had approached her. Robb gave him a gummy baby smile, little peaks of teeth poking through, tufts of dark red hair sticking from his head. A beautiful testament to her and Ned. He had stroked the baby's cheek, gave that light smile again. A sound came from behind him, an odd sound. That is when Catelyn had noticed her, wrapped in oversized furs with a squirming bundle on her chest. 

Ned had brought the baby over to her. Showed her the pale thing, its pale purple eyes staring up at her. In that moment she could remember the distrust, the anger, the betrayal that had swelled up in her like a poison. It was months before she could even look his way. Many months after that before she would share his bed again. 

That is what made Sansa so special. 

For so long, she had thought Robb would be an only child. She had wanted nothing to do with her husband, he had been – in her eyes then – a letcher, a cheat, an honorless man who could not even manage to make it back to his wife. Or, in the very least, keep it discreet. Her family thought she had been shamed, and she felt the same way too. But they healed slowly, he told her of his mistake, how his heart had felt weak so far away from home, his body wary, his mind tired of death and decay. He told her that he promised the midwife a home and that she would have to stay. Catelyn had been incensed. But after a time, she relented. 

Again, they slept side by side, and soon after they laid together. When she found out she was with a child she had been so excited. Another new start for her and Ned, a small part of her, a foolish and childish part, had hoped that with a new child Ned would be able to distance himself more from his bastard. But that was false. The bastard was a sickly babe, needing constant attention from her husband. The midwife tried to do most of the work but Ned insisted on doing the honorable thing. 

Sansa was born as the sun was setting after a long labor. Again, a child with soft tufts of red hair, pale skin and the cloudy eyes of newborns. Part of her cheered when she was told the child was a female, she had her own daughter now and Ned had a trueborn daughter. Sansa had grown up spoiled because of such, she had dolls, trinkets, furs, tea parties with her mother – there was a part of her that selfishly thought of Sansa as just her own, her own little piece of Ned. The more children that came the more Catelyn felt secure in her place. Though it did nothing to abate her feelings of resentfulness when she saw the bastard. But she knew that her husband was honorable enough that there was just the one. And that had to be enough. The girl stayed out of the way, and Catelyn had two more boys, and another girl – and they were different. More Stark. With Rickon’s looks, he was more Stark. They loved their sister. 

They didn’t seem to care about her status . Too much of the wolves blood and perhaps less superstition than Sansa. Septa Mordane knew what to say, and when to say it; telling them that their sister could carry a curse, or have dirty blood. Nothing deterred the other children, however from being around their sister. They toddled after her like she was made of gold, watching her train in the yard, and learn. They took to Dana as well, who told them stories of beaches and cloth covered skies in the South. Dragons and Monsters, Knights and Maidens, they loved it. 

All the while, Catelyn had noticed more and more often that Sansa had been glancing in the way of her sister. Looking at her at meals with the family or tracing her when they embroidered together. As the Bastard grew older her beauty and the grace Dana had managed to instill in her showed. Others had taken notice of the girl, seemingly enchanted by her looks and presence. Including Sansa.

Catelyn thought she even saw a longing look on the face of her daughter when Arya and Bran tumbled after their sister, throwing themselves into her play fighting, her singing or her story reading. 

As the Bastard grew older their firm understanding of ignoring each other seemed to cement itself, which gave Catelyn the power of sight. For so long, with the Bastard in her face, she had nothing but resentment to give, nothing but dislike and disdain, no distance.  Lyli had spent a year with the Mormont’s, giving Catelyn the space she needed, the space that had allowed her to pretend that Lyli wasn’t there, and contemplate the things that had weighed heavy on her mind without having to actively look the Bastard in the eye. 

But now, as she watched the bastard – Lyli – plant her son into the dirt again and again, ride a horse and bake a pie, read her siblings a book and make clothing for the freefolk, there was a part of her brain that got to thinking. There was a part of her brain that thought in circles and looked at the girl, really looked at her. Though there was resentment still in her heart, the distance had allowed something new, _ curiosity. _

That was an odd thing. 

Lyli, while looking astonishingly like her aunt, looked nothing like Ned, which would mean only logically that she looked more like her mother. 

Her features  were delicate and small, her eyes were set deep and her eyebrows were thick and jet black, her hair as dark as night. That was very Northern, but Catelyn had ruled out a Northern woman, at the time that Lyli would have had to have been conceived, from when Ned said her nameday was, he was at war. In the far South. 

As she grew older, the suspicions about who Lyli’s mother was only grew, Lyli was petite in size but not boyish like Arya, her curves filled out faster than anyone could blink. Her dark hair while wavy at birth now laid in thick sheets of long curls, so dark they nearly reflected light. 

Curly hair was not common in the North, the farther south one went they could find deep waves, but Lyli’s curls where near Rhoynish - but to get close to any Rhoynish ancestry he would have had to been in Dorne or in the Red Mountains, but again - time of conception would be off. He did not cross the sea until the end of the war, to receive his sister's bones. 

She strayed even further from Northern when you got to her small, dainty, naturally upturned nose and delicate brow bone. Her light purple eyes had whispered to Catelyn once of Ashara Dayne or some Southron whore.

But, they strayed further from Southron when her dark hair and pale complexion haunted the halls of Winterfell, telling stories and a light dusting of golden freckles blossomed across her face, more round than the scars from the pox as a babe. So now, they just whispered of suspicion.

Ned never spoke of Lyli’s mother, just saying she died in childbirth and that he had no romantic feelings toward her. He would go so far as to leave the room if it were brought up, or silence people with a look. In the early days no matter how Catelyn raged for a name, for a face of the woman who struck her marriage like lightning. Ned would not relent, instead he would hang his head with his shoulders tight. It wasn’t shame though now she realized it was determination. 

And now, as she thinks back to that time she wonders, she ponders, as she stares at the bastard at meals and in the yard, or doing some cleaning in the library or holding Rickon on her hip – 

Where did Lyli’s mother come from? 

And more importantly, who is she? 

* * *

Lyli glared at Robb. 

He was acting downright irrational. He looked over his shoulder again and ferried his sister deeper into Winterfell, the snuck past the kitchens and into a crammed nook in the corner. Grey Wind licked at Ghost’s ear, who seemed to narrow his crimson eyes at his brother. 

When they were children they would often hide here. On days when his lessons were especially hard or Lyli needed to escape the eyes they would come here and talk about Knights, stories of the White Walkers and the future. He would sneak her pastries and she would bring him rolls with jam or slices of ham from breakfast. When they were kids they could tuck into the nook perfectly, knees together, feet intertwined just enough space to be comfortably uncomfortable on the little bench seat that was the nook in the wall.

Now she was just uncomfortable. 

He squished her into the nook and crammed himself beside her, whisper swearing as he settled into the nook, glaring at her as she gave him her elbow when he nearly scooched her off the little seat. Ghost, sitting a head taller than Grey Wind, a feat having come from being the runt, to being the tallest of his brothers and sisters, settled at her feet. His bright red eyes shining in the dark, above their head there was carved stone, like a child had taken a blade and drawn upon the ceiling above them. Lyli liked to think it was her namesake, Aunt Lyanna, hiding here from her duties. 

“What is it, Robb?” She asked him again. He had flown in while she was reading, a peaceful moment between her and Ghost in her busy day. Dana had been sequestered with Catelyn building her a wardrobe and Catelyn had not seen her long enough the day before to issue her any chores to do. 

Her brother frowned down at her. Despite his Tully coloring when he looked at her like this he really reminded her of their father. His brows brought low over his eyes, his mouth settled into a frown. 

“I have to speak with you, away from eyes.” Her brows jumped. She had figured he had something to tell her that was secret, but his measures seemed extreme for him. He wasn’t subtle and usually if he had something he had to tell her that he didn’t want to share he would just invite her on a ride, or find her in the kitchens. Not tuck her away into a nook and whisper furiously at her. 

“What is so urgent?” She asked him, yanking her elbow from him. He took it again. 

“I heard things from Father, during my time in his solar. There are things you should know before you go to King's Landing. Some Bannermen are arriving in a few days and I doubt we’ll have much time to talk before then. What he told me is not supposed to leave his solar, but I have to tell you.” Upon hearing that this was about her upcoming trip she sighed. 

“Which bannermen?” 

“Rickard Karstark and his sons Harrion and Eddard, Greatjon Umber and Smalljon. Roose Bolton and his son Domeric and his Bastard Ramsay. Maege Mormont, Dacey and Lyanna. Wyman Manderly, his son Wylis Manderly and Wylis’s daughter Wynafryd, she is Arya’s age.” Lyli’s eyebrows jumped. Another bastard would be going? 

It all seemed like quite a bit of fanfare for one man’s birthday and a fair. All of these important people in one spot, she was beginning to feel more and more like a stain on a new dress. 

“I don’t even know why I’m going.” She muttered. She was no one important, and she highly doubted that some Southron man was going to want her to be his wife. She was not meant for that sort of life, that was more for Sansa. 

“Father said that Jon Arryn requested that he bring all his daughters. There will be too many suitors there for Father to miss this opportunity for a good match for the North.” 

“That does not explain why I’m going.” She explained patiently to her brother. It was times like this that she loved him and was exceedingly frustrated with him. Her brother, his kind heart – made him forget her reality, that they were in different circles from each other, moving at different speeds with different paths. He would be Lord of Winterfell one day, he would get a bride that was fit for his station. He had a choice,surely their Father would give him the option to say no. She did not. She had to take whatever she was given and run with it, clutch it in her hands and hold it tight - “I’m a bastard, Robb.” She gently reminded him. 

He blinked at her, his eyes became sad. She hated this look from him, from anyone. This pity that bloomed in his eyes, like her life was worth tears. Like the fact that she had been born was worth their prayers and their mercy. All she had done was be born. Brought motherless into the world, like that was some great tragedy. 

“So?” 

She sighed again, blowing her fringe from her face, she took his hand in hers. Her skin was rougher than his, from working the laundry, cooking and being in the yard, but his had his share of calluses too. He had a spray of freckles over the back and dirt under his fingernails. 

“So taking me to the South to meet suitors does nothing for us. No one there will have me, and if they do it's probably to make a mockery of us, or he will be some Knight with a small portion of land. My options outside of the North are limited.” She scoffed, “My options _ in  _ the North are limited.” 

“You can stay here – “

“I don’t want to be here forever Robb. I want to be a wife someday, a mother, I want to be free in my own home without your mother glaring at me.” She confessed. She felt the blood rushing to her head, but not from embarrassment, but from emotion. 

“Lyli – “

“No – Robb, let me speak.” She grasped his hand. “You are so kind. You are so wonderful that you just don’t see, I know it’s hard for you, but our lives are different. I don’t have the choices you have. I have to take what I am given and run with it. So if that means Smalljon or some lower Karstark, I’ll take it. But I deserve all that Sansa and Arya deserve too. And there are only so many ways I can get that.” 

“Lyli.” Robb’s voice was rough. 

“I’m going to go to the South, but I’m not going to expect anything from it. There’s nothing there for me but mockery and shame. I have not yet left and yet I cannot wait to come back.” 

For a few moments they sat in silence. Hands together. 

“I think it’s shit.” Robb said. Lyli let out a surprised laugh and looked at her brother. 

“It’s absolute shit. You’re better than settling. You can ride, you can swing a blade, you can help birth a babe and make a sword. Those Southron men aren’t going to know what to do with you, if they don’t see the value in you, then their brains are full of horseshit.” Robb said. Lyli laughed, she didn’t know why. Nothing was particularly funny or tickled her, maybe it was even relief. 

“Hush Robb.” She released his hand to nudge his shoulder with hers and laughed again. 

“So what did you drag me down to this cold nook for, what could be so important?” She asked him. He stared straight down at the floor. 

“I heard things today.”

“Like what?” She prompted him, growing impatient. 

“Like the fact that Jaime Lannister stabbed the King in the back.” 

The words sat in the still air for a while, resting there like stone suspended in the air, making it heavy. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re going South Lyli, there are going to be houses there that we’ve only heard of, never met. I’ve heard things today that I never knew, never thought of. We’ve heard so much about Robert’s Rebellion, but not enough. Not enough for it to be truth.” Robb said. 

“Father lied?” Lyli couldn’t stop the doubt from leaving her voice, Her father was the most honest man in miles. Everyone knew, she was a testimony to that. She was a bastard, a stain, he could have left her wherever she came from, never spoke of her, but his honor and is honesty kept him from doing that. 

“No – not lied as such. Just tried to spare us.” Robb said, running a hand through his auburn hair and then shaking it out. His shoulders were weighed down with heavy furs that radiated warmth from even where she was, she felt the chill starting to settle into her bones. She looked down at her feet where Ghost was staring up at her, dark eyes radiating back at her, security in the dark. 

“Spare us from what?” 

**  
  
  
  
  
**

* * *

Tywin took in the sights before him with mild disgust. 

He remembered a lifetime ago when this had been his place. As Hand of the King to the Mad King he had never let the streets fall into disrepair like this. Despite the many fires that were inside of the Keep, he had tried to make sure they did not spill out. Aerys had liked to test him. He liked the chaos, the madness, people frantically moving about him. He made a game of tormenting the smallfolk, letting their stalls get ransacked, barrels of wildfire exploding in the streets leaving bodies scattered about. Tywin had reigned him in the best he could, Rhaegar appealed to his father as much as he could to try and contain his madness. 

Once it was contained they were able to at least perpetuate the image of normal life. They set up orphanages that received food from the Keep, they cleared the streets of Whores, making sure they were inside of their respective establishments, they held festivals in the streets giving the smallfolk business, they held court to hear their grievances. 

When Robert became King, Tywin had allowed him the choice of his Hand. He would not be Robert’s Hand. Jon Arryn was a logical pick. He was well versed, battle tested, a kind man. He knew how to reign Robert in, or in the very least, shame into normalcy. He had hoped that they would do better by the smallfolk, but he could see that even in that, Robert and his daughter had failed. 

The hike up to the Red Keep had been hot and long, marred by the shouting of the smallfolk and the stench of starvation. He would be having words with the Council regarding some of what he saw. He intended likewise to have words with his daughter and her drunken buffoon of a husband. 

The march through the city had been eye opening. Though he had spies here, it had still been at least a full year since he had come to King's Landing, and the words of his spies could not have prepared him for the sights that he saw as they marched forward. 

The streets were littered with dung, tattered cloth, and various rot. The stands were lopsided and touching, the merchants were dirty and grim and they stared at him. With all the Red Cloaked Lannister guards and Knights, they would not dare to attack or even speak a word. They still glared at him from dirty faces, the stench of dung unrepentant in the air. It would take at least a fortnight to get this place cleaned up enough to welcome other houses here. He could already feel the coins leaving his purse from the expense. 

The children that lined the streets were scrawny, thin boned and dirty. They looked up at their great horses and the knights that rode behind with wonder and fear. There were women also, working the stands, hand dirty and hair sticking together, he even saw a few whores. They used to be discreet but these women did no such thing, leaning wantonly against stands and stone, their breasts bared and legs parting. Another mess he would have to clean up. 

He tried to hide his disgust on his face but it was near impossible. The sewers were overflowing, there were barrels of rotting fruit and the like, pushing a horrible scent further up his nostrils. Tendrils of stench like acid followed him all the way up to the doors. 

The inside of the Kingdom wasn’t much better. 

There were fine to thick layers of dust upon every surface, even the rooms they were given needed to be cleaned. He had ordered the maids in immediately and they cleaned with a furious vigor that they probably hadn’t used in many moons. The floors needed to be cleaned, the great vases around were filled with flowers that weren’t wilted and dying, like most things in this place. 

Another stark visual reminder of his daughter's failure of her duty. As Queen, it would be her job to make sure the streets were prepared for guests, the Keep clean, that the guests would feel welcome in the halls, that the vases were full, and the kitchens were running. That there were no maids standing and gossiping about. Cersei had been too young to be taught these things when her mother died, and like all things with his children, he took it upon himself to make sure his children were properly educated. 

Genna was the best of influences at the time. His sister had been raised with the pride and stature of a Lannister, she knew how to host and what was expected. As early as he could he got Cersei tucked under his sister's wing. Genna and Cersei had spent years together, he would have hoped that the education would have a lasting effect. He didn’t have to look into the carriage that was carrying her to see the terse look that would be resting on her face at the state of Cersei’s Keep. 

The Knights at the front gate had been bent and sweating, not tall and proud as they should have been. A couple of them swaying on their feet as if they were intoxicated, a quick walk past them and their stench proved that to be true. 

The palace had lost so much of its greatness. Aerys had always had an affinity for chaos, wherever he went - his madness followed. It was no small feat to get him to keep things in order. Aerys could be manipulated, if only to feed into his own ego. Tywin had become a master of such a thing, manipulating the King - in some areas he was successful, like sustaining the Keep in great order.

During Tywin’s time at his side there was never a time when the Keep fell from glory, the gold always shone along with the floors, guests were hosted and treated. As the distance between them grew and Tywin’s plans for the future began to change, so did his grip on the King - there were battles won and lost. 

He knew his daughter and her husband had no loving relationship, things were tense and murky with them. She had proven to be a disappointment as a Queen in more ways than one, just as he had proven to be a weak and flawed King. Despite all of that, her status as his daughter and the way she was raised should have made her take pride in her surroundings at least. Yet the state of things was so shameful that the headache that had begun to arise turned into steaming anger faster than he could begin to reign it in. She must have seen it on his face as she leaned in to embrace him when he had arrived, her hands trembling slightly. 

It was a disgrace. 

Disappointed swelled in him. He had expected so much from Cersei, she had been a bright child. However she had not taken after her mother. Perhaps they did not have enough time together. Joanna never had dreams of being a Queen though, even marrying Tywin to her seemed to be almost overwhelming. Though she handled it with grace and leaned heavily on Tywin for the short time they were married. Cersei had wanted to be Queen since she was a little girl. Wanting nothing more than to wear a crown. At the tourney at Harrenhal she had stared so longingly at the Prince, and the frown that married her face when he crowned the Northern girl had been deeper than any he had seen on anyone else. It was not shame, shock or disappointment, it was envy. 

Though Cersei was vain, she was self-aware. She knew she was beautiful and worthy and used that to her advantage. Unfortunately, she was arrogant. She thought she was above reproach, above learning and nothing could touch her because of her status. He knew that that would be her downfall. He planned on telling her, too. 

He had many words for his daughter. 

Cersei had entered her marriage with Robert with a grace that made him proud. But it quickly turned into public sneers and loud arguments that the guards, Knights, and maids could gossip about. When Joffrey was born he hoped they turned a corner. He knew they would never be in love, love was for children. He had hoped Cersei, as his daughter, would know to bring no shame upon his house by slandering his name with audacious behavior, but it was exactly as she had done. 

Tywin looked at himself in the mirror, making sure his trousers and tunic were straight, the double breasted vest he wore was crimson red and his boots had been polished before his bath. A knock landed on his door, lower than expected – Tyrion. 

The door pushed open and Tyrion sauntered in, behind him his private guard, Bronn followed both of them dressed properly. Tywin glared down at his son. “Where is Jaime?” 

“I would imagine he is brushing his golden locks – “

“You need not imagine, Tyrion.” Jaime interrupted, from where he was leaning on the door. Tywin looked over both of his sons, making sure they were appropriate before motioning the red cloaks to begin their march forward to their welcome feast. Jaime wore his golden doublet tucked into black trousers, shining boots. His hair was too long these days, nearly brushing his shoulders but he had combed it back. He looked every bit the heir Tywin had always wanted him to be. Tyrion nearly matched in a darker gold doublet and grey trousers, walking with his limped gait did not take away from the appearance of his status, the look of interest and intrigue on his marred face.

“You will both behave.” Tywin warned them, in a low tone. Tyrion gave a single solitary nod and Jaime did nothing, just stared forward as if unseeing. The herald straightened as they saw him, two guards pushed open the great heavy doors that led into the Dining Hall. 

In the hall his sister stood, at her medium height, her gown was rich red, her lips painted the same shade. She stood in the same regal stance that she had since she had been in lessons as a child. Her hands clasped firmly in front of her, her long golden hair, now threaded with grey was pulled into a tight braid that wound around her head like a crown. 

She looked at them with an appraising eye. Her lips pinching a bit saying everything in her face that she would not speak in the halls, her displeasure clear. 

It was mostly as he remembered it though some of the décor had changed: dragons changed to Stags and Lions. Onyx and Scarlet changed to Crimson and Gold – to the point of near garishness. 

“I present, Warden of the West, Lord Paramount the Westerlands, Tywin Lannister. The Queen’s own aunt, Lady Genna Lannister, Accompanying them is Heir Jaime Lannister, and son Tyrion Lannister.” 

Tywin shot an icy glare at the seneschal and stepped forward, giving a tight and polite bow to the King, looking at him through his lashes. He could see from the corner of his eye that Jaime and Tyrion had done the same. 

The King was standing, but not still – the man was swaying gently on his feet, clearly already deep in his cups. He was sweating through his silks, his beard was heavy and looked oily, the crown sat lopsided on his head and his face was flushed bright red. He looked as though he had aged well beyond his years, streaks of grey were present as well as thick lines of wrinkles on his forehead. He was still tall and broad, but he had lost all the muscle that he had worn in the war, it was buried beneath the layers of skin and fat that had accumulated from too much food and ale and not enough time in the yard. 

Beside him, on his left was Joffrey. His grandchild. 

He nearly sneered at the thought. 

The boy was coiffed and coiled, his hair was neatly combed and he was giving them a simpering smile. Looking upon them with excited dancing eyes. He was blonde haired and green eyed, his face was pointed and narrow, his nose tipping delicately up into the air and he was marred with no physical imperfections though looking at him you could see instantly that something was perhaps,  _ not right.  _ Not right in the sense that his eyes were darting back and forth, his smile looked as though it was a sneer on his face – crooked and wrong. 

Beside him, his next grandchild stood. She was delicate and small, shorter than her younger brother. She had long blonde hair, that was tied in a simple braid that was thrown over her shoulder, her eyes were downcast but he could see that they were blue. Her hands were delicately fisted in her gown and she did not look up. Beside her was Tommen, young and round cheeked he gave them smiles and his green eyes twinkled. Still padded with baby fat and the naivety of childhood. 

To the right of the King was the Queen. His daughter stood at her medium height, swimming in crimson and gold fabric, her hair brought up off her neck in a multitude of braids, her wrists heavy with gold jewelry. She was giving them a smile as well, though – not him. Her smile seemed to be aimed back and to his right – Jaime. 

The room was filled with familiar faces, Jon Arryn was hunched slightly but standing, the King’s brothers were both in attendance. Monford Valaryeon was there as well, Tywin’s eyes narrowing on him. At the very end of the table were two familiar figures, one greying, with dark hair on the top of his head and a narrow smile and the other drowning in yellow fabric, bald with a blank expression. 

“My Good Family.” The King slurred. Tywin jetted his eyes back to the front where they narrowed on the obviously drunk King. Down the way, Stannis Baratheon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to King’s Landing, and we thank you for arriving for my nameday celebration!” He stopped his speech like he needed to breathe between sentences. “Tonight, we feast in your honor.” 

Tywin stepped forward, inspecting his Goodson and his daughter, their family. 

“We thank you for the invitation.” He said crisply. “We look forward to your nameday celebration.” 

The King let out a drunken laugh, his face redder than before, “Needing a good tourney then?” His daughter winced from where she stood. Anyone who met Tywin would know that he was never needing a good tourney, they were a waste of money and time – they were better for trade talks and house meetings, good for making alliances and enemies. 

“We are indeed looking forward to it. Jaime may even enter.” He spoke. 

“As he should! We have a good number of houses coming!” 

“I know, that is why we are also looking into finding Jaime a _wife_ in these coming weeks.” 

Cersei’s face cracked like glass. 

**  
  
**

* * *

“Your father said you could take Ghost.” Dana said, her voice cutting through the quiet night. Ghost, as if hearing his name, perked his head up from where he was laying, his large head cushioned on his paws. 

Lyli leaned into the brush that was running through her hair, feeling the bristles catch on some of her waves and tangle. It was a luxury to have someone else brushing her hair, the heavy weight of it was hard to brush on her own and she loved the feeling of someone’s hands running through it, gently parting the waves and curls, feeling the cool air on her scalp, feeling it lifted off her shoulders. 

“Dana?” She got the attention of the woman with the brush. It was late, the fire was burning and she had just bathed and finished up her reading, a little story about some knight and his fair maiden, the type of romance that Dana had given her a dry side eye for reading. 

“Yes my tulip?” She began to braid the sections back, running a wide toothed comb through the sections and touching the ends with lavender oil to help her sleep. She had been having trouble sleeping lately. Dana had said it was trouble breathing on her neck, like a story she had been told when she was a girl – about an entity who came into the beds of those who worry, and kept them awake by blowing the fears of worry upon their neck, making them too cold and then too hot. It was just a folk tale then, now it felt more real than ever. Her nights spent tossing and turning, adding more wood to the fire and then yanking her blankets off.

Rickon had gotten clingy in knowing that she was going to be leaving soon and had refused to sleep in his own bed and had begun to act out. He spent the days sneaking up on people, jumping out of corners and scaring maids and washerwomen, trying to sneak away. Ghost had had many full days corralling Rickon and Shaggydog. Chasing them about Winterfell and leading Lyli to wherever they were hiding. When the moon was high Rickon made it a priority to sneak to her room and get in the bed with her, and he heated up in the night like a bag of coals and kicked so she had to roll from him all night as he chased her about the bed in his sleep. Shaggydog drooling about rolling just as restless.

She was beginning to get bags under her eyes and felt less energy in her days. 

“If I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?” She asked. In just her robe, staring into the fire she felt bare to the world, like a million stares were gazing at her through the dancing flame. As the days went on and their trip inched closer, she found that she was more and more apprehensive, anxiety dancing under her skin. 

“Have I ever lied to you?” Dana asked, Lyli gave a small shaking of her head. 

“I heard things from Robb, the other day. I went to see if I could find the answer myself but, in all the books I found … there was nothing.” She bit down on her thumb nail, staring into the flames, the burning red light causing her bare feet to look warm amber in the light. She felt the warmth from the fire comforting on the bare soles of her feet. 

“What such things have you heard?” Dana had moved to another section in her hair, braiding down her back another tight section of hair. 

“I heard that ..” She trailed off, unable to let the words take shape in a form that she deemed appropriate, they were getting tangled on her tongue. 

“Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad you cannot speak it to me.” Dana said gently. 

It all came out in a rush, like a river that had been blocked by a dam. 

“I heard how Lord Brandon and Lord Rickard were killed by the Mad King, Lord Brandon was strangled, and Lord Rickard was set on fire with wildfyre. I also heard that Jaime Lannister killed the King by stabbing him in the back and let his father in the gates and Princess Elia and her children were slaughtered, and that he wasn’t known as the Mad King for any small reasons, he was a torturer, a mutilator, I heard that two of the Rhaegar’s siblings got away, Daenerys and Viserys got away, but recently the King had them killed. I heard – “ 

“Robb told you this?” Dana interrupted. Lyli nodded her head. 

Dana let out a foreign curse behind her. Lyli felt Dana’s hands leave her hair and come around, still lavender scented from the oil and began to run Lyli’s temples like she did when she had a headache or a particularly stressful day. Lyli felt the tense muscles in her jaw begin to loosen. 

“I’ve always told your father he sheltered you all too much. He said over and over that he was just waiting for the right time, that you all were not old enough. I reminded him that by the time he was Robb’s age he was at war. He is such a gentle man, your father. He always has been.” Lyli often wondered how far back and how extensive Dana’s relationship with her father was. She seemed to know him very well, she had even caught them on occasion sharing a smile or a laugh, she wondered if they were friends, and not just an obligation to each other. 

“All of this, my dear – is not uncommon knowledge. The Kingslayer was given his name not as an honorific. Though I would say in this room, that what he did was a service to us all, as un-honorable as his methods were. What happened with Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon is true, most the things you hear about the Mad King as you venture South will be true. That his wife was both his sister and his slave, that he kept Princess Elia and her children locked up until they were murdered by Lannister soldiers who scaled the walls. That many in the South had to turn their backs on them and risked wildfyre and horrible death.” Lyli shuttered, staring into the fires still. So warm and beckoning she could not imagine the fear wildfyre must put in the hearts of people who may have to face it. 

“How do you know so much?” Lyli asked, Dana began to braid again. 

“I have ears, I’m much older than you, I can remember these times like they were just yesterday. I remember your Father placing you in my arms like it had happened only hours ago, you were so small, so beautiful.” 

Lyli blinked away tears again, feeling foolish for her emotional state lately. 

“Dana, when I marry … will you come with me?” 

It was a question she had wondered often, when she was gone from Winterfell would Dana return back overseas, would she never see the woman who raised her again? It was another thing that kept her feeling joyless about marriage, losing the one woman who she loved above all else. The one person who had loved her unconditionally when she came screaming, motherless into the world. 

“Lyli. My sweet flower.” She felt Dana place a kiss on top of her head. “When you marry I will come with you.” She felt like someone had squeezed her heart in her chest, like a palm wrapped around the organ and gave it the gentlest of squeezes, pumping emotions into her brain. 

The tears welled and fell then, relief that something in her life would stay the same, even if some foolish Southron man took fancy to her, Dana would be there. 

“I will follow you to the moon and back.” 

**  
  
  
  
  
  
**

Song: 

Private Eyes - lenchka 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, full kudos and credits to Fierce Radiance who takes the heap of garbage that I email and turns it into gold! The amount of emails we send about this story and the thoughts we have about this really keep me going, keep me writing.
> 
> I want to thank you all for you comments and kudos, we both appreciate it. 
> 
> This chapter was really to delve into the mentality of some of the people that we going to be seeing, and some of the information that is coming new to our Lyli, and how it will impact her. Throw me those comments! I can't wait to see yall next time.


	6. Chapter Five

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

“ _You have a destiny. You aren't allowed to know it._ ”  
 **― Tamora Pierce, [Tempests and Slaughter](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/23976276)**

* * *

Dana had a bit of a soft spot for Benjen. That was the only thing keeping her from doing something like stamping Ned’s foot, and the elder Stark looked haggard enough without her assaulting him. She was near out of breath, her chest heaving lightly from the heavy trek she had taken from the kitchens to the crypts. She damned herself when she realized that she was holding a bowl of berries. 

“Ned Stark.” Dana spat. Glaring at him with dark, glittering eyes. 

“Dana.” He sounded nothing but exhausted. And he well should be, guests had been fluttering in every day now, from the Bolton’s to the Karstark’s - rooms were made up, the stables were full and the dining hall was packed every night. She had not seen much of Ned over the last couple of days with the flood of company, she was too busy in the kitchens and making last minute preparations for Lyli’s trip. 

“Three days. You’ve given me three days to prepare.” She said to him again, there were no formalities, they were never spoken in the crypts. Ned did not answer her, instead he peered up at the effigy that stood before them. Her solemn stone face was looking down cast, a wreath of winter roses sat on top of her head, a gift from Benjen, her eyes downturned but her lips quirked in a little smile. Sometimes Dana wondered if Lyanna was laughing at them from her place in the beyond. 

“She needs you.” This voice was deeper, rougher, as if it hadn’t spoken in a year's turn. Benjen, tall and wiry, long hair tired back from his face, scarred face looking passive and dark in the poorly lit crypt of his family. 

“She will need your strong hand when she is in the South. There can be no one else.” Benjen said. “She needs her mother.”

She felt her heart clench. 

She had always had a soft spot for Benjen. The third person to learn her secret. The third person to know that particular truth. 

He was so young when she had first seen him that day. When Ned Stark had helped her from her horse and she had held the Princess out to him for him to present to his wife, she had caught his eye. Standing to the right and just behind Lady Catelyn was a young man, with dark hair and a youthful face - with eyes as old as time. He had watched, as she had, the beautiful Lady Catelyn turn into stone before them, shunning the motherless child and her husband.. His face had fallen, not at his brother, but at Catelyn. 

That night they had secluded in this very spot. So many years ago, the stone felt the same then as it did now, unforgiving and cold under their feet, they were all much younger then. They had stood then the same way they did now, in front of the spot where Lyanna’s bones lay, Ned leaning heavily against a wall, a younger Benjen holding a small, wriggling bundle in his arms, looking from the little face with wide open lavender eyes and then he held the baby closer. 

“You’re her mother then?” Benjen had said, in a voice that was much younger than the ash and gravel he spoke in now. 

“I’m her caretaker.” Dana had said, though on the lips the words felt like a betrayal. She had been this baby’s mother long before she was even born. Lyanna had grown weak fast, a detail she never shared with Ned, to spare him from a further broken heart. Lyanna had been so young, and drained from pregnancy - her moonsblood had come just a month before she had even met Rhagar. She had been a skinny little thing, who ate her food like a bird. The babe was ill seated in her belly, making her sick from the time a little bump was visible. 

She had spent seven moons with Lyanna Stark, from the time Rhaegar had brought them both to the tower, thirsty and hot and then left them there. She had watched the babe in her arms near suck the life from her mother. Lyanna would spend her mornings as she grew weaker and weaker patting her belly, when her arms were no longer strong enough to do that, and her cheeks had grown gaunt from being unable to keep food down without wretching horribly she had tasked Dana with rubbing her belly. 

Some nights, she felt like a fiend, a fraud, as she bonded with the baby and the mother, her friend, had lay slowly dying below her. She did all she could to keep her alive, knowing it would be futile.

Yet, in those moments, feeling the gentle kicks under her hands, rubbing cream over the pale belly in which Lyli had resided, she felt a connection streaming between them. If she hummed softly to the belly, the little being within would kick. If she stroked around the belly button, the baby would wriggle. Lyanna would smile, her dry lips would crack open and bleed but she would show joy in her own macabre way. 

The day Lyliana was born had cemented Dana in a fate that had sealed her. Sealed their lives together. She had brought Lyli into the world, her hands stained with the blood of her birth mother. Ned Stark had burst in, looking red and sick, she placed Lyli on the concave chest of her mother and laid against that wall, praying, hoping, waiting for her death, remembering the feeling of the limbs of the baby dancing beneath the now cold skin of her mother. 

She had felt like the moment she placed her hands on the ailing body of Lyanna, to rub the oils into her belly, and felt that small foot kick -  _ she _ had been Lyli’s mother. Not her caretaker, not her midwife, her mother. 

She had first fought these thoughts. She had gotten on well with Lyanna in the times she was lucid or not staring balefully out the small window of the tower. In her first weeks there she had been excited about being a mother, about a future, and as news continued to come in as the war raged on the light in her dimmed but their bond grew. Lyanna needed her help more, and Dana and she were the only two in the tower, the guards living in the lower floors or their tents out in the sand. They had nothing to do but talk. When Lyanna could talk no longer from dehydration and weakness, she would hold the girls sweaty hands. 

That long ride back to Winterfell did nothing to quell the thoughts, though her heart stung with her betrayal when she remembered the loving way Lyanna Stark had rubbed her belly up until she couldn’t.

Every night that she got to hold Lyli she felt like she was betraying Lyanna. When that feeling of belonging arose when she rocked the babe to sleep she tried to beat it back but it was just too strong. 

“But she knows you?” Benjen had said, that night, so many years ago. 

“As any babe knows any person.” 

“You’re the only mother she is going to have.” Benjen had said, his young face steeped in sorrow, looking itself like a stone effigy. Ned had come alive then, speaking:

“Catelyn - “ 

“Will never love a child who is not hers.” Benjen had said, like a prophecy written into that night, his words were true. 

“She needs time.” Ned had said, sounding tired and defeated, Dana was quiet then. Watching Benjen look down at the little face that looked so much like his sisters, and so different at the same time. 

“You don’t know your wife Ned.” Benjen did not look up from the face of his niece. “I do. We have been here together, in this castle, waiting for you to return. I’ve seen her on her happiest of days, I’ve seen her on her worst of days. I’ve heard her prayers to her Gods, I’ve seen the way she shuns those she deems beneath her, and plays to the image of Lady Paramount to those who she deems worthy. This is the way she was taught, the way she lives.” Little Lyli had begun to cry then, Benjen rocked her gently. “I’ve seen her eyes alight when your letters come, and I saw her turn to stone when you arrived. She will never love this child. She will love all you give her, and she will forgive you, but she will never love this child.

“This woman,” Benjen had jerked his head in her direction, a fast movement in the darkness, “is her mother. She will be the only mother Lyli has.” 

Benjen had stayed at Winterfell for a year before leaving to join the Night’s Watch and drift beyond the wall, further and further from the place he called his home, as it was to him, home no longer. She knew this because they wrote. Not many letters went to Castle Black, but they corresponded at least once every moon cycle if he was at the castle, fewer and farther between when he was gone on his jaunts beyond the wall. When he came to visit, they made a point to see each other, spend a few meals and a trip down to the crypts. 

They were the keepers of a secret that went greater than Rhaegar and Lyanna. They were the holders of Ned Stark’s shame, of Catelyn’s rage and jealousy, they were the keepers of Lyliana Targaryen, who was destined for so much more and as they both believed, fate would find a way. Benjen and Dana were of the opinion that Lyli would not be a secret forever. Ned always believed that she would be, that she could be the bride of some half bright young Lord and have her own children and slowly her blood would dilute until her stock was just Northern, maybe her grandchildren, or great grandchildren. 

But Benjen and Dana knew the truth.

Once she stepped foot in the South, Lyli’s future would take a turn. She would no longer be staring down the path of a quiet Northern marriage, or solitude in Winterfell. 

Her blood ran with the fire of her ancestors. Despite Ned's hope that Lyanna's Stark blood would dilute it and her daughter only knowing of the North; there would be no diluting it, no putting it out or hiding it. Everyone would see, greedy eyes would take in her sloped nose, lavender eyes and Rhonish curls.

The legacy she did not know she had would continue to grow and spread like wildfyre, taking everything in its path down the moment she stepped foot in the South and eyes saw what Eddard Stark had been hiding.. 

* * *

Jaime tilted his head back, feeling the sun warm upon his face as he watched the large ship that was swaying to shore inch closer and closer to docking. It was early morning, the sun was just peaking into the sky, drenching the alcove patio he was on in near blinding sunlight. The curtains wafted out from the only cool breeze that was going to be happening that day. By the time the sun was high in the sky the heat in Kings Landing could be nearly insufferable. Stiff, humid from the water being so close and near suffocating.

Not that he needed the heat to suffocate. It seemed like every moment he spent in the Keep that he was slowly being suffocated, the feeling of pressure slowly being applied to his lungs. Like he was drowning. There were too many memories, both fleeting and haunting that scaled these walls, clinging to the shadows. He had managed to avoid most of the activity in these first couple of days, spending most of his time with Tyrion. It was harvesting time in the West and they had trades to work out so he could find himself excused to a solar until they were expected at meals and even those he was able to take in his rooms with Tyrion and Bronn.

Their father had yet to correct this behavior and he probably wouldn’t until the rest of the company arrived, which appeared to be happening within these next few weeks. He was informed by his father that The North was in route, The South was almost already here, the West had already arrived – a few families were still trickling in as preparations were coming to a close and finalizations were being completed. Tywin was only going to remain patient with his seclusion for so long – and he wasn’t the only one.

Another letter had arrived via seneschal that morning.

He had tossed it on top of the rest, a stack of nearly seven now, each one longer than the last judging by the thickness of the parchment. They had come every morning since that first dinner, he knew the writer herself was getting impatient because of the way the greetings began to grow less and less coordinated – the penmanship was also falling apart.

On the first letter, she had written in her perfect quilled ink,  _ My Dearest Brother.  _ On her second, her hand just as steady she had written,  _ Blood of my Blood.  _ On this last letter, his name was scrawled angrily, the ink smudged he knew it had probably stained between her middle finger and her ring finger. It had said just  _ Jaime.  _ Her patience had waned in the days of his lack of response, she had never been one for patience. Or to not get her way.

“I see you’re still avoiding our dear sister.” Came from behind and to the left of him, Tyrion was still slurring slightly from the night before, the wine probably still running through his head. He could hear the pad of his brothers small bare feet and the sound of him pouring water into a goblet. The maids had cleaned up yet another full night of Tyrion early that morning, taking away the discarded cheese, wine and meats that had been the center of his and Bronn’s lewd and lascivious tales.

The two of them had played many games, including putting burning candles on their arms until they couldn’t stand it, asking for two truths and a lie – it had gotten loud and Jaime had felt again like they were back home – in their rooms by the cliffs, having a laugh instead of in the haunted halls of this thrice bedamned castle.

“Not avoiding.” Jaime corrected his younger brother, who appeared at his side. He looked down at Tyrion and stifled a laugh at his miserable appearance. Wearing a tunic and trousers, but no shoes, he was holding a goblet of water and looking out at the distance with squinted eyes. Still, miles out from the dock the billowing red and orange sails inched closer and closer.

“Ignoring then.” Tyrion then corrected him. Taking a deep swig of water.

Jaime smirked down at his brother, “I’m a busy man.” Tyrion rolled his eyes, and then winced as if the action hurt him and from the copious amounts of wine he had imbibed the night before.

“You won't be able to avoid her forever.” Tyrion turned and walked back into the sitting area of their connected rooms, to pour more water. Jaime listened to him again, the small pat of his steps, the pouring of water.

“Watch me.” He whispered.

“So you’ll never tell me?” Tyrion asked, from behind after taking a large gulp of water again. He returned to Jaime’s side, this time with a small bread roll in his hand.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

From the time they had left Casterly Rock until they arrived Tyrion had been nothing but questions about what had happened between him and Cersei. If anyone would be able to understand, it would be Tyrion – but even he wasn’t privy to the details.

There was too much dirt there, trying to piece together what went wrong between he and Cersei was like digging up a grave. There was too much history, the place to begin was the womb. The problems between them had grown like they had, closer at first, and then farther apart. The first layer of dirt was nothing but jealousy, regret and mistakes. The further you dug the dirtier it got. He was up to his elbows in it when he was young, still fishing in the murky waters of their complicated relationship, trying to juggle how one could love and hate at the same time. 

By the time he had left, given his white cloak back to Selmy where it belonged and rode to his future he had been up to his neck, waded in the waters of hate, longing, self-loathing and regret.

The ride to Casterly Rock had seemed to be the longest journey he had ever taken. He had only sent a raven just the night before informing his Father he would be returning. He had snuck a look in at Joffrey that night, cloaked in darkness – the flesh of his flesh, even in sleep his face had been screwed up in anger, like a frustrating dream. He had stood over his son, waiting to feel the pangs of love, or longing or  _ anything  _ for the boy, and all he felt was a bleak emptiness, a regret and despair over the decisions of his ignorant, arrogant, younger self.

He could only imagine the rage that Cersei had taken out of the flesh of those around her after he left. He could all but see it on the pages of angry letters that he had first received, and then, like the ones sitting on the table, he had stopped reading them. At first they were rage filled, then the pity came, the pages stained with tears, and then she was back to anger, ink bleeding through the pages and then they became nothing but diary entries – like he was a leather bound journal for which she should spill her most lustful and angry secrets. He had left those ones alone.

It had been two full years.

Two full years since he had been in the presence of his sister, and he had been right about his first assumption, distance did not make his heart grow fonder.

When he had seen her there, upon their arrival, draped in crimson and gold, the crown on her head – her wrists and hands leaden down with jewelry, looking every bit the regal queen he had waited for the pangs to begin in his heart, the longing, the moral uprising that being around her had once caused... and yet nothing came. His heart was as still in his chest as untouched waters.

He had not let his face show anything when his father had allowed them to be introduced, told the King that they were honored to be there for his nameday which, by the way he was sweating and panting like a pig by merely standing, appeared to be close to his last, he stood still. Only Jamie’s lips moved, a smirk, like the moving of a piece on a board, when his father had announced one of his true reasons for coming.

A bride for his heir.

He had heard enough about it. His father had been giving him the talks since he arrived, about finding a good bride, one that would make for a strong leader, one that was fit to be a Lady Paramount of the West _.  _ To Jaime, it always sounded like his father was looking for a woman who was fit to be queen.

Tywin had been looking for sure, for a woman to be with his son. But Jaime knew the truth: who wanted to be with an older, distant man – who spent his days leading trade and his nights training in the yard. Not that any of that mattered – his wife would be nothing short of a regal broodmare.

A regal broodmare who Tywin had just placed a target on the back of.

He knew more than anyone how his sister's rage could turn from angry to spiteful to dangerous. How when they were children, he had caught the eye of the daughter of a kitchen maid, and that same girl was found raped and beaten. How any woman who risked looking his way risked her vision.

But this time would be different, Cersei was no longer a girl in her home Keep. She was Queen in the Kingdom, a Queen afraid of her father and leaning heavily on the aid of her family. If they did not continue to supply coin to the Baratheon head – there would be no meat on their tables, no wine in their storage. The coin that was sent to them would never be paid back, but Tywin never expected them too – they would pay their debt in will. They will bend to will of whatever Tywin, or Casterly Rock, needed. Cersei could not risk that, lest she lose the jewelry she treasured so much.

If there was one thing Cersei loved more than Jaime, it was her children, wealth and status.

“Things will only be getting interesting from here.” Tyrion commented, the ships were docking now. He could see some details on the great orange sail. Dark skinned soldiers in yellow cloaks marched from the ships.

Yes.

Things would only get more interesting from here. 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Lyli watched as Roose Bolton’s lip curled like he had just sniffed milk that had gone sour. He was hiding it fairly well, his disgust for the Freefolk - but it didn’t miss Lyli’s eyes. He stood in a light enough posture, his hands clasped behind his back over his heavy furs, head tilted as if he could understand a word of what the woman in front of him was on about. But every once in a while - as if his face was not aware he was doing it - his lip would curl in a minute expression of disgust before his face frosted over smooth again. 

She could hear Lyanna and Arya playing with some Freefolk children behind her. Nymeria rolling in the mud as she did, splashing them with cold flecks of mud. Both girls would need a tough scrub behind the ears. The Mormont’s had arrived four day previous, and Arya and Lyanna seemed to have made quick friends, much to the chagrin of Lady Stark. Lyanna embodied everything Arya imagined, a girl who was allowed - expected even - to fight,, who didn’t need to embroider or learn to dance. During her time on Bear Island she had helped care for Lyanna with Dacey, a doting older sister. They had bonded over their fears and aspirations for their sisters, and a love for the sword. 

Seeing her old friend and hearing her voice had done wonders for Lyli’s confidence about heading South. Dacey was tough and assertive but she also had a way of making Lyli laugh and relax, ignore the eyes that were on her. It reminded her of her time on Bear Island, being just Lyliana - a girl learning to fight, hunt and be a proper Northern Lady. There, under the smiles and encouragement of Maege and Dacey, she had found her footing. When she returned from Winterfell she had lost some of that, since seeing the faces of those who fostered her she felt some of it returning. 

Maege Mormont had arrived on the top of her large war horse, her dark hair, streaked with grey pulled into a long braid that trailed over a shoulder. She had given nothing away on her face when Father had bent to kiss her hand and she gave proper greetings to Lady Stark. She had looked at Robb and Theon as if they were foot soldiers, with brief acknowledging glances. She graced Sansa with a little bow, she studied Arya with calculating eyes. When she got to Bran and Rickon she had given them polite greetings, but her eyes were already darting to Lyli. 

Upon standing in front of her, and with an audience, she had embraced her. Lyli felt like part of her had returned to home when her nose came in contact with the deep black furs around Maege in the embrace, her mind flashing to all the embraces they had shared during her time fostering. 

Lady Stark and Maege got along just as much as Lyli had imagined they would. Like fire and water, they naturally repelled each other. The dinner in their honor had been a painful and stilted thing between the adults. Catelyn trying to make conversation and Maege giving her polite, but short answers and Catelyn trying not to become too visibly turned at the tide of events. As Lyli herded the younger children to bed she had seen Maege and Dana speaking quietly together, walking slowly toward the gardens. 

They were together on this day as well, Dana leading Maege into the birthing hut that the Freefolk had constructed, being accompanied by Yona, the Freefolk midwife who was speaking to them slowly so they would understand her better. Many of the Freefolk who travelled to the colony did not speak the common tongue, they had a multitude of languages from Old Tongue to Skagosi. 

Farther down, Domeric Bolton and Ramsay Snow were hitching sticks into a large fire at the direction of another Freefolk woman who was pointing where they were gathering around a roasting venison. They were an odd bunch, the two brothers. So different, and yet so similar. Both were tall and broad shouldered with dark hair and blue eyes, but that is where the similarities ended. Domeric was warm and friendly, he had bowed politely to Catelyn, made Sansa blush and even gave Arya a gentleman’s greeting when they had first arrived at Winterfell, Ramsay had done much the same but his greetings had felt as cold as eyes. His blue eyes were not warm with mirth or friendliness - instead they were iced over with something darker. 

Ramsay had ridden oddly close to her on the way to the colony as she had trailed behind to watch over Arya and Lyanna Mormont. She could feel his eyes boring into her as she rode forward, trying not to look to her right in the off chance she might make eye contact with her uncle. 

Uncle Benjen had arrived well before the rest of the guests, and he had caused quite the stir around his arrival. 

She had only met her Uncle Benjen a handful of times. As a child she had watched him ride through the gates before on one of his visits. Her memory was of a tall man, with long dark hair, a long face and nose and his eyes covered by a hood of the cloak of dark pelt that he wore. In that moment, he was like a character from a tale that Dana had told her. Half man, half wilderness. The night he arrived at dinner it seemed nothing changed. It was like her brain had reverted back to that of an imaginative child, seeing her uncle as some kind of wild man. 

He was taller than her father, his hair was dark brown but ran through with streaks of grey. He looked unkempt, especially in comparison with her father. While her father had his share of scars about his person, and he kept his hair down to his nape. He was not known to have the most clean hands as he helped the smallfolk and worked about Winterfell, the training in the yard and riding, but he always washed his hands in a basin before mealtimes or retiring to his solar. His hands were calloused and scarred, he was as battle scarred as many of the men his age. And yet, he looked younger than his brother. 

Benjen was tall. He had an array of scars that covered his face, a particularly large one crossed his nose and made it look like his face had been nearly split in half. He had a collection of scars around his eyes that looked like they were made from small blades. His hands were large and dirty, and scarred as well, that night at dinner she found herself staring at them with a deep intensity. 

They were dirty, dirt was under the nails, long pale raised scars covered his palms and his calluses were so large they were visible. His hands were pale, as a matter of fact he was pale all over, if he hadn’t been so far North the only explanation would be sickliness. He did not change into comfortable clothes to eat in the family dinning room, instead he had shed his thick outer fur but still wore a wool tunic, a thinner cloak over that and his thick, leather boots. 

Unlike her father, who left all of his weapons away while they ate privately, Benjen kept a blade. She knew because he would whip it out to cut his meat. 

She was particularly rude that dinner, staring at him as she had. But he didn’t seem to mind as he spent an equal amount of time staring at her. On the times she wasn’t watching his hands, his nearly black grey colored eyes were fixed on her. And unlike most of the people she came across, who politely looked away - he seemed to be openly studying her. In the time they sat across from each other at dinner, he had hardly spoken. He had spent most of his time while they were there holed up in the solar with her Father. 

Robb and Theon had taken to him with some kind of hero worship in their eyes. Taken to following him about, stalking his movements with childlike glee in their eyes. Taken to telling stories that could not possibly be true about her uncle that travelled beyond the wall. Like that his pelt was made from some kind of great skin-changing bear, that he fought giants, speculating wildly about the scars about his face, about the heavy blade he carries on his back. 

But from what Lyli sees, he does not speak to them. The brief few days she has seen him in Winterfell it seems he haunts it like a ghost, sleeping until late in the day, waking to haunt the training grounds or ride alone to the freefolk colony once. He spent his afternoons and evenings in her father’s solar. He was a honored guest, a Lord of the house who served The Night’s Watch with honor, yet he was treated like a pariah by many. Maids scuttled from him, the boys cleared from the yard to hide and watch him practice, the silence in the air around him at dinner was stilted and awkward. 

Lady Catelyn had made a chore of being a polite host to Uncle Benjen, who - in the face of her gentle, polite questions - gave her long blank looks and short answers, his tone polite but his demeanour everything but. It brought almost a near giddiness to Lyli to see Catelyn chase for approval. Which then brought on shame, as one should never feel glee at another person's unhappiness. 

There was tension with seemingly everyone he met outside of his brother and Dana. She had only seen him talk openly with two people, Ned and Dana. Sometimes, it seemed he wanted to say words to her, but something stopped him. Instead, he settled for staring at her - much like he was doing now. 

She was now attempting to ignore him. 

“She’s beautiful Augie.” The Freefolk woman in front of her gave her a tired and proud smile. The baby was squirming in her arms, she cradled him close. He smelled that gentle musk of new baby and was wrapped in blankets. Just a few days old. Lyli tucked the blankets closer around him to protect him from the chill. 

“Do you need anything?” Lyli asked the new mother, who was watching her gently rock the baby. Augie had been among the first group to come, her flaming hair was streaked through with greys and her clothes had seen better days but she still looked much better than when she first arrived. Her cheeks much less sunken and her eyes were not rimmed so thickly with blue bruises from lack of sleep. She had come with her two younger children who were still in her hut. 

“Not from you Lovie.” Lyli blushed at the nickname. It was one that the Wildling women had spread around  _ Lovie.  _

“From anyone else?” She asked. Handing the baby gently back, Augie tucked her to the chest and smiled at Lyli. 

“We could do with some more furs, some spears - the usual, it’s still warm yet.” She joined Augie in staring at the sky, still a weak blue. 

“Are you expecting more?” The baritone came from behind and to her left, she avoided swiveling around like a startled owl. 

Benjen stepped up to her left side, looking down at Augie from his towering height, unlike many of those who visited the colony his eyes were not wide with curiosity or animosity, instead he was politely blank, his tone inquiring and polite. With his dark eyes and scarred exterior it was easy to forget that he had grown up a Lord in Winterfell, like Father. He wasn’t born in the forest like his looks would suggest. 

“We’re hoping Lord Stark will approve for some of our men to come.” Augie was looking at Lyli this time. 

Father had reservations about allowing more Freefolk to come, especially the men, the warriors. Freefolk women fought, some better than or equal to the men, but many of these women had fled the larger colonies because of violence amongst the men, and wanting a peace and stability that the rest of the Wildlings didn’t want to kneel for. While Ned Stark never asked them to kneel, he did make it clear what would happen should they rebel. He had stamped out many a rebellion in his time. Lately, the more she visited the more she heard about the Freefolk colony wanting to expand by allowing some of the rest to follow, Lyli wasn’t sure it was the best of ideas from the stories they had shared about some of the men in their last colony. 

“It’s fine and well now.” Augie said, staring at Lyli still, “But when the chill comes creeping from over that great Wall of yours, we will need the men to help us hunt and keep our numbers strong. Visiting them in travelling parties is fine but that isn’t a sure way to ensure our survival.” Lyliana flushed embarrassingly at hearing this. She knew that the Freefolk didn’t put the same gold on virginity, marriage and all the coins that came between as they did, but she still flushed when they talked about sex. She tried not to show it, as to make it seem like she was looking down or frowning down upon them, but it was hard. 

The most talking she had about what goes on between a man and a woman was from Maege and Dana, and their talkings had been crude but educational, Lady Stark had given her and Sansa the same mysterious speech about bleeding on your wedding night and purity, but it had left her with questions that only the trusted women in her life could answer. The whole thing put her off marriage more than before. The fact that someone may want her because she was pure and that if she rode a horse too vigorously and ruined that part in her that some man wished to take she would be considered the dirty Bastard girl Lady Stark had always seen her as made her turn her nose up at the business. 

The women were not ashamed of their bodies. Lyli had walked into the huts of many a naked woman who dressed unforgivingly in front of her as she flushed and apologized, but in all, it reminded her of Dana. Who was so far South of the wall it seemed strange to share any cultural value - but it was true. Just like the Freefolk, Dana had always preached an acceptance and love for your body, to cherish it like it and be proud of it no matter the state, bare, clothes, pure or impure - bastard or trueborn. 

The Freefolk were always worried about their dwindling numbers. They liked their way of life, and it wasn’t unheard of for a Freefolk woman to have six or seven children, they had to keep their numbers strong as they had a higher turnover than normal. Oftentimes there would be colonies of only children, whose parents had died from disease or internal fighting and they would need to be led to a Matriarch or larger colony for care if they were found. Sometimes they were not found at all until the snow unearthed their bones. Augie herself had been the one to tell Lyli that there was rarely ground they covered that didn’t have a resting place for some fallen colony or another. 

“I suppose that is true.” She told Augie, when she couldn’t come up with anything else suitable to say. She wasn’t the one who would be making those decisions, all she could do was relay them back to her father, who was currently in trade talks with the Umbers and Karstarks back at Winterfell before they all bound forward South. 

“Besides,” Augie continued. “There are dangerous happenings beyond the Wall.” There was always that, always  _ dangerous happenings  _ though they never explicitly said what the dangers were, she knew it was part of the reason they were so driven to come beyond the wall, despite the fact that they couldn’t live as free as they wanted. She had asked for the story in the past but had just been told that it was a story for another time, or a warm day. Both of which never seemed to come. 

She gave the baby another little foot tug and Augie a rueful smile. 

“I’ll miss you all while I’m away.” She said, truthfully. The Freefolk colony had been such a hopeful escape for her. Proof that she could handle greater responsibilities and a place to go where she wasn’t Ned Stark’s bastard. Here, she was a worthy woman who could wield a sword, build a hut and hunt with the best of them. 

As she walked away from Augie her large shadow seemed to follow her, Benjen Stark walking beside her like a person guard was more than likely the reason for the odd looks that she was now receiving from the Bannermen who were visiting the colony. Roose Bolton was looking at them with an inquiring eye. Domeric Bolton gave her another large smile that she tentatively returned. Maege and Dana had emerged from the hut and were eyeing her with firm dark eyes. 

As she continued to walk forward, riding boots trudging through the mud a group of children ran past, giggling as Ghost nipped at them playfully, allowing them to tug on his great white fur, playfully snapping his jaws. They hardly seeming to notice the cold they bolted forward playing, their feet were near bear in just there roughly made shoes as they splashed ahead in a puddle, one of them playing the part an angry bear, the other two were playing the part of warriors, using crude wooden sticks as shields and swords. 

She worried her lip as she watched them. 

Knowing that she would be gone, and being unsure of how long she was going to be staying South made her wary of leaving the Freefolk colony. They needed her. There was so much work left to do - 

“I’ll take care of them.” His voice was like rocks were tumbling around in his throat. She stopped her stride abruptly, but it did not trip him up - instead he came to a stop next to her. One warm, thickly scarred hand gripped her arm above her elbow as she turned to look at her Uncle. Her kin from beyond the wall. Ghost came padding in front of her, his massive paws making large tracks in the mud, he nuzzled at her midsection, she gave him a few pets on the head, rubbing his downy soft ears. 

“I can see it in your eyes. You worry for them.” He said. There was no question in his tone. 

“Anyone should, it’s getting colder and darker, and if they do bring more men to the colony before I - Father - Lord Stark - returns - “ 

“You care for them.” 

She looked up at him, his eyes gave away nothing. Their dark grey depths nearly black and unreadable. 

“I do.” 

* * *

Catelyn watched from her place at Ned’s side as the feast progressed.

She eyed the tables with pride. She had been arranging this night for days, all the Bannermen and their kin, their handful of travelling men all enjoying all the Winterfell had to offer. The kitchens had been working all day, roast venison and chicken, beans and greens stewed down, potatoes and brown bread. It was a grand feast. The last course was making its way now, stacked honey cakes, apple tarts and a pear loaf was set at every table. Ned was speaking quietly with Benjen, who was sitting next to him.

Catelyn could hear bits of the conversation as it went on but didn’t join, as she normally would with a guest. Benjen was Ned’s honored guest, his brother – a Ranger with the Night's Watch, a man of legend to go farther beyond the wall than any other Ranger.

She had seen him making his way at tables, speaking to their Bannermen, some of which he knew as a boy. He gave the children his attention, his solemn face not breaking into a smile until Rickon flicked a chicken bone at his sister.

Catelyn wasn’t beyond admitting that she was more than a little nervous about being alone with her Good Brother for an extended amount of time. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, he was as good of a man as Ned was, he would never lay his hands upon a woman and didn’t seem to have a violent disposition. It wasn’t that he was improper, because he wasn’t. He was mannered, perfectly so. It was that she did not know how she would be so long alone with someone she simply didn’t know how to interact with.

She knew the social queues, she knew that he was there to assist her and continue teaching Robb, that he would be taking over some correspondence for his Brother unofficially and that he should be treated as a Lord of the house, that she could do. What she could not do, was break past his frozen solemn face.

It had always been that way with them. It often led Catelyn to wonder if Benjen had just never approved of her and Ned. He had lived still in Winterfell during their brief engagement and hasty marriage and she had never seen too much of him, while Ned got close with Catelyn’s family. Catleyn didn’t have too much of a chance to do the same, she had met them briefly during her first betrothal but then came the kidnapping of his sister. Then his father and older brother were killed. His mother had long since passed. 

The only one there was Benjen, naught but a child when he was left Lord of Winterfell while Ned fought in the war.

He had been solemn then to, inky hair fell about his face, in a smaller set of armor, his was taller than Ned, with long leaner muscles and paler skin. He had most of the standard Stark features, Long nose, and dark grey eyes but his were particularly stark. . They had never had a conversation that was greater than anything that equaled discussing the weather. His conversations with her were shallow and light, though he was never rude he never seemed present with her either. When his eyes would meet hers they were iced over with distance, faraway as if he was beyond the Wall still. 

Part of her felt this foolish urge to shake Ned awake at night and ask like an insecure newlywed if his brother hated her.

Robb was down the way with Theon, giving a jovial smile to SmallJon and Domeric Bolton, he had spent his mornings with them in the yard, getting to know his future Bannermen, Catelyn had watched them with a proud eye, her son making alliances. 

While she was proud and excited for Ned and her children to be travelling, she was also apprehensive and fearful if she were being honest with herself. She had done her best to prepare her children and herself for their trip: making sure they wrote to her every day in the journals that she had gotten them to be given to her when they returned, to stay close to their father, mind their manners and know that they were representing both the present and future of the North. There could be no missteps, no embarrassment, her mind flashed toward the wardrobe she had put together for her daughter

“I can hear you thinking.” She nearly jumped from the voice that came from her right.

Maege Mormont made a formidable figure next to her, her dark, iron streaked hair thrown in a long braid over her shoulder, she was looking down at the table in which her daughters were. Catelyn wasn’t jared at the sight of Lyli there with Dacey and Lyanna Mormont, since the Mormont’s had arrived she had been glued to their side which, to Catelyn’s trained eye, led to some jealousy on Robb’s part as he did not like sharing his sister. Lyli was smiling at her friend, and had an arm around little Lyanna, on the other side of Lyanna was Arya who was chatting with the girl her age in a quick and excited manner. On the other side of Arya was Dana, who was staring at the girls with a gentle eye. Catelyn felt her own eye twitch.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Catelyn said, addressing the Lady.

“You have the look I have every time Dacey goes on a hunting trip or one of my little ones goes to foster. I worry.” She said.

Catelyn didn’t have a reply to that. She bit the inside of her cheek and gave her a small, forced smile.

“There’s no shame in it. I’ll be there and Dana as well. Besides, Lyli would not let anything happen to her siblings.” Catelyn wondered what gave her away. If it was the way her lips faltered from their small smile, if it was the way her hand tightened around her wine glass or the way her eyes darted over to Ned, still occupied with talking to Benjen. Something gave her away because when she met Maege’s steel eyes they were all knowing and narrowed in something that felt like disapproval. Part of Catelyn laid bare, her insecurities, frustration and ill-content at the Bastard.

“She’s a good girl.” Maege didn’t flinch at Catelyn’s stunned silence, she kept on as if nothing was going on. “Smart, capable, a fighter – that one.” Maege gave an approving nod.

“She’s very much like her father.” Was all Catelyn said. At that moment, like something aligning, Lylianna looked up from her friend, a smile on her face, curly hair thrown over a shoulder she met Catelyn’s eyes, dark lilac under the low candle light yet still stark on her face. 

“Very much like her father, indeed.” Maege said. 

* * *

**Song: By The Sea - Wendy & Bonnie**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so many kudos and so many good vibes to FierceRadiance who helps me through these chapters. This one was particularly murky and she waded those waters so expertly. This story would not be what it is without my amazing Beta who basically needs writing credit by now! 
> 
> I'm looking forward to hearing from all of you and I hope you enjoy, please drop any questions, comments, kudos and feedback in the comment box below, I love hearing from you! Thank you for being so patient.


	7. Chapter Six

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

_“By the pricking of my thumbs,_   
_Something wicked this way comes.”_

  
** William Shakespeare,  [Macbeth](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1896522) **

* * *

Myrcella whipped a head around the corner and made sure not to sigh out loud when she saw the night guards still standing around speaking.

They were laughing quietly about something, something foul from the tone they were speaking in – she hoped they would move along soon as standing in one place made the marble floor sting her feet with chill.

The evenings were chilly now – where she used to be warm so much that she had to kick off all of her blankets and have the maids come to lay cool clothes on her face, now she found that the ground had developed a chill, while the air still remained moist from the breeze that licked off the sea.

In the warmth it was easier to sneak around after bedtime. The guards were more likely to leave from their shifts to go down to the city to seek company with women, leaving many of the halls barren from men until Ser Barristan started early in the morning and made sure his men were at their posts. It was one of the many reasons she could not sneak during the day time.

That, and the fact that she had no time to do so – it seemed that her schedule was full from the time she woke in the morning until Marcee tucked her in at night. Marcee had started as her chambermaid a year before, she was an odd girl who was good at lying. Myrcella didn’t like her much because oftentimes her lies led to more attention being drawn on Myrcella, but she needed a maid like Marcee – a maid who snuck out at night instead of doing her cross stitch and drank too much at dinner instead of sticking to watered down wine and milk. 

Marcee was a clumsy maid, and Myrcella wasn’t quite sure how she had gotten the position. She could be loud, speak out of turn and made rude gestures at the Knights who passed her by. She also ran the baths too hot, and brushed Myrcella’s hair too hard until her scalp was stinging. But she could not complain, if she complained she would get a chambermaid like Tommen; Joyle was old and withered but had eyes like a snake and watched his every move, she made sure he took his night tea and didn’t leave to bother Mother or Father like he used to do as a babe.

Her days were filled with endless motion. From when she woke up and was stuffed into a dress by the Maid, to her lessons on geography, hosting and stitching. To when the seamstress came and measured her for another around of new dresses that would grow dusty hanging in the wardrobe. Her harp lessons followed a small lunch that was usually small finger sandwiches or vegetables with sweet milk. She learned about clans, history and money – with little to no time to sneak about. Tommen was glued to her side until he was all but dragged down to the yard to practice with a little wooden sword that usually left his hands red and his eyes watery from dealing with Joffrey.

She spent most of the hours during the day avoiding her older brother. She had always been close with Tommen, as her younger brother, and only by a year – he was her closest friend. He was gentle and soft. A bit shorter than her and a tad fairer. Where her hair curled down her back, his was pin straight and a lighter shade of blonde. Where her eyes were blue, his were seafoam green – he looked closer to Joffrey than to her. His love for animals far greater than any love for a human. The antechamber in his room was full of them, little cages with birds, large floppy bunnies and little mice. Warm beds for cats and a little dog. Tommen was slight and always flushed, he had a soft smile and hated going to the yard and sparring or sitting through Father’s war stories. He wanted to be outside, he and Myrcella used to pick flowers together until Mother put a stop to that. She put a stop to a lot of things.

Joffrey was a different monster. He was older than her, but the way upon which he was dotted on, one would think he was still in his infancy. The Hound followed him from his lessons and watched him in the Yard as he fought the training boys. Just this night he had launched a glass plate across the room after being denied access to gold to buy a new crossbow. Mother had tried to placate him after Father had stumbled from the room, declaring that Joffrey wouldn’t be spending any gold until he could tell North from South but it was too late, he had flown into a rage. 

Without thinking, she reached up and touched her face, a small scrape lay underneath her finger where the glass had busted up to her face, hitting the wall only just behind her. Ser Barristan had helped her from her seat so she did not step on the glass and Maester Pycelle had put some salve on her cut but her mother never looked over at her. Even as Tommen had shed tears when he saw Myrcella’s eyes glistening, even when Ser Barristan had carried her from the room, setting her down in the door so she could walk to her rooms with her head down, even when Marcee had gone to get her a new cup of water that did not have flecks of her own blood in it.

She knew, deep down, that her mother loved her. She had seen it first hand, but she did not love her as she loved Tommen, not nearly as much as she had loved Joffrey. She had seen her mother's eyes soften upon her, felt her lips on her forehead when she was ill, knew that her mother had fed her from her own breast. But as she got older that love seemed so much farther away. She had not felt a forehead kiss in many moons, had not seen her mother’s eyes soften on her, had not felt the warmth that came from being embraced by her.

So she turned to a different source.

Her father was an odd man. He was big and bumbling and often drunk, but sometimes Myrcella could find him alone. Standing on a balcony or sitting in his solar, staring out at the sea like it was telling him the most compelling of stories. At first he seemed uncomfortable at her presence when she went to his solar and asked him to tell her a story, and then, as time went on – he seemed to learn to like her being there. He would sometimes take her from her lessons and let her watch the Knights train and he would tell her about their moves and weaknesses, he would take her sometimes down by the docks to show her the different boats or the stable to visit the horses. 

She had not been able to spend much time with him as preparations for the Tourney were underway as that was taking up most of his time. Which led her back to where she was now.

She peeked over the corner again, the guards were saying a long goodbye to each other, they headed off in opposite directions. Myrcella ducked down and waited for one to pass her. She watched his back go before slipping into the hallway that was lit with lanterns on the wall, the flames licking out creating shadows on the ground as she scurried down the passageway. She tucked the book she had further under her arm and whipped her head around another corner to make sure it was empty before quietly padding down the steps.

The library door was already slightly open so she could just slip in. She wouldn’t have needed to come back so soon if she had researched further and realized that the book she had taken was part of a series, she could have just nicked the whole series. The large shelves loomed over her as she made her way expertly through the dark, knowing exactly where she wanted to go. The fiction was placed against the back wall, she ran her fingers over the shelf as she rounded into the corner, the dust already broken up from where she had done it before.

She paused.

There was someone there.

Her uncle was there, bent over a book, a lit lamp next to him as he stared at her with surprise in his mismatched eyes. There she was, in her dressing gown and night dress with Tales of Corra the Flower tucked under arm, her hair was tucked in its night braid and thrown over her shoulder, her feet bare.

“Dearest niece,” he said.

She took him in as he took her in, he was short as was expected. He was of course, the dwarf, but he was more than that. He had a strong face, a nose that was nearly identical to her mother’s, slightly turned up and delicate. His eyes were mismatched on his face, his blonde hair was dark at the roots like her Mother’s but remained dark and did not lighten as Uncle Jaime or her Mother’s did, it was a mess of curls on his head. He was in a tunic and trousers, his own small dressing gown thrown over the chair next to him.

“My lord Uncle.” She said, her voice was a whisper. They had not been properly introduced, he had lived in the Castle before but she was a baby then, with no living memory of him. He had come to the Keep some weeks ago with Grandfather Tywin and Uncle Jaime, but for the most part they had been away from them. Myrcella was tucked away before their meetings or dinners or generally kept away as they were planning the rest of the tourney. She had only seen him in passing and when they had their formal dinner and introduction.

“Well, look what we have here.” He was speaking in a normal tone, which to her sounded like yelling, where she was used to whispering.

“I-I-“

“Should not be out of bed.” Tyrion finished. She expected him then to turn, call for a guard, her mother, her night maid, someone to come to retrieve her and shame her for stealing books from the library and send her to bed before she could slip down to the kitchen and knick a snack before tucking into read the next tale from Corra the Flower. Instead, he gestured to the seat across from him. Myrcella moved silently and sat down, pulling the heavy chair out as quiet as she could. She set her book down and sat across from her uncle.

She never truly expected to have a conversation with him.  _ Monster, Filth, Waste –  _ Those were only a few of the words her mother used to describe her youngest brother, and those were the nice words. For her whole life, when her mother spoke of Lord Tyrion it was with venom in her tone, disgust on her face. When she first saw him she thought at first that she would be seeing a monster. A deformed imp with eyes like a demon. Instead, he was just a man.

“You’re a reader then?” His nodded his head down to her book. 

She looked down at the floral cover and found one of her fingers tracing the outside of the book, she snatched it back, flushing as she nodded.

“I was a reader too at your age. Doing much the same that you’re doing now.” His voice was odd, nearly poetic in his way of speaking. Like every word was rolling off his tongue coated in honey. “I would sneak away from my night maid, quite like you I assume, and go to the Library. The Library at Casterly Rock is just a bit smaller than this one. By the time I was ten and five I felt like I had read every book in there but I would always find something new, or something was ordered for me. I find, like the last time I was in your home, that there are some new tomes for me to read here, new stories, new lessons.” He was looked at her like she was a puzzle. “I read the very story you’re reading now, as a child.” He nodded at the book. She let her fingers dance on the table.

“I like it.” She whispered in the air, the words hanging suspended from her mouth. “I-I like reading about her adventures.”

“Ah yes, the adventures of a fictional pirate girl and her companions would be so interesting to a girl such as yourself.”

“Such as myself?”

“A wealthy girl, a beautiful girl held like a bird in a cage. Unable to escape anything but her room in the dead of night, a girl who has to sneak about to read while she is taught to dance.”

“I don’t like dancing much.” She admitted to her Uncle. Who gave a nearly soundless chuckle, his eyes wide as he stared at her.

“You know when she was your age your mother loved dancing. Yes she did.” He nodded, but it was more to himself than to her. “With your Uncle Jaime most of all. Our Septa took us to the grand ballroom and, I was too little to dance – in every way – and showed them the steps. When Jaime wasn’t in the yard he was being dragged to practice a dance with Cersei.”

Myrcella tried to picture her mother young, a smile perhaps on her face. A real one, not the prideful ones she gives Joffrey or the sardonic ones she gives Father. One that Myrcella has seen herself do in the looking glass, a big one that split your face, broke a dimple on the chin and a shine in the eyes. She couldn’t picture it.

“Ah my beautiful niece.” She was drawn back to the present, sitting in the dark library with her estranged Uncle, having a conversation over a children’s book.

“You look so like your father.”

  
  
  


* * *

“We’ll need to re-do it.”

Lyli shared a sigh with Dacey who had just finished plaiting Sansa’s hair for the third time that day. The carriage was cramped and getting overwarm from the furs that were spread across their laps but it was their turn to be in and mind the children. Arya and Lyanna were under a thick white pelt sharing an eye roll at Sansa who was staring at herself again in the hand mirror. Lyli’s leg was pressed tightly against Dacey’s who was sitting between her and Sansa.

She peered again out the window. The carriage had stopped as Father, Lord Bolton and Lord Karstark stood speaking at the front of the party. She knew they were having a disagreement once again about whether to stop or keep going. Father was fine to ride well into after the moon had begun it’s ascent but Lord Karstark was a man who liked to settle in as the sun was setting. She knew her Father’s patience with the slower travel was beginning to wear on him as they neared a fortnight on the Kingsroad.

Everyone’s moods seemed to alter the closer they inched toward Kings Landing. As the weather warmed it seemed that attitudes cooled, everyone on edge as day after day they creeped closer to the Capital. Every person seemed on edge, chewing on the very tips of their fingernails as the frozen ground turned from marsh to mud, to lush grass.

Arya and Lyanna had gotten more restless. Taking off to hunt rabbits and leave their older sisters to chase them in the woods as the wreaked havoc. It was harder for Septa Mordane and Dana to get them to settle in for their lessons daily. Lyli had to order poor Ghost out daily to chase the girls as Nymeria was nothing but a bad influence and Lady, like her owner, was more delicate, preferring to lounge under trees and trot gently behind the horses. She had caught Arya and Lyanna attempting to saddle Nymeria, who was all too pleased, just a few days ago. She had forbidden them from riding the wolves and instead let them ride with her on her horse when they got sick of their ponies.

Father and Dana had gotten all the more secretive, before bed she would find Dana and her Father at the very edge of camp, having a hushed conversation or two. With Father’s eyebrows furrowed and Dana’s face trying to look as neutral as possible. She had caught them in three hushed and hurried conversations over the course of the journey thus far but had yet to make out what they were so worried about. The nearer they got to King’s Landing the more foreboding the entire thing seemed.

She wondered if she had requested to stay behind if her Father would have let her, she wonders if that would have been a better decision than going to bed with knots in her stomach that she might disappoint her Father or embarrass her family. She was already an embarrassment enough according to Lady Stark.

Before bed was the only time she had to brood about it as the days were just as busy as they were in Winterfell, except in motion. If she had any notion that Dana’s harsh and fast lessons on Southron etiquette, hospitality and bloodlines would slow down as they travelled she was swiftly proven wrong. If anything, Dana had been amped up by an energy unlike anything Lyli had ever seen. Throwing questions at her as she was shooting down a deer, cleaning her clothes in a stream or riding in a day dream, bouncing an orange segment off her head to get her attention.

When her mind wasn’t in the clouds, chasing her sisters or doing her lessons, it was avoiding Ramsay Snow. At first she was set at ease that another Bastard was coming. But as she learned more and more about the Bolton’s and in particular Roose and Ramsay, she was less than enthused.  _ Snow  _ was where their similarities ended. He was a smirking presence that always seemed to be  _ just there  _ when she turned around. Beside her on his grey stallion, just across the fire at dinner, bringing her an arrow she shot from the hide of the animal. It seemed every time she turned her head she was meeting his eyes unintentionally.

From the corner of her eyes she watched Sansa shake out her latest plait and begin combing through her hair with her fingers. She was antsy with energy as she had been the longer they travelled. In the beginning it was mostly complaints about the cold and damp that could be fielded off by Septa Mordane and Father, then it grew to a fevered energy when she realized that they would be dining often with the Crown Prince.

_ Joffrey  _ had been the only thing on her lips since they had started to see flowers growing in spring air. As the North grew farther and farther behind them, further and further Sansa seemed to look. She had seemed to have gotten the idea in her head, planted by Septa Mordane, that because Father and the King were so close, that she might secure a marriage with Joffrey. Lyli didn’t know when this idea began to bloom, but bloom it had. 

_ Joffrey  _ had been all she could talk about, even whispering the name in her sleep. Every time she did so while they were at a meal it seemed that her Father grimaced and Septa Mordane smirked. From her imagination she danced like a marionette, tugged on strings that told her of a future made in a girls dream. Unable to control her own hands as they fidgeted with her hair, her legs as they curled underneath her, her fingers as they stitched dress after dress, more of them with threads of golden yellow.

“We’ll need to perfect the braid crown.” Sansa said perfunctory, chewing on her bottom lip with her teeth and looking down at the circle of embroidery she was working on. A navy cloth embroidered with the sun and green grass.

“Your plaits look beautiful as they are Sansa, but we can continue to practice.” Dana said, working on her own stitching. She was threading in a silvery thread into the bust of one of the Lyli’s gowns.

“I’ll need a steady hand.” She said, shaking out her long red hair and looking at it. Lyli could see her pouting at it as it frizzed. It was equal parts humid from the rain that was expected and sticky outside. That combined with over combing and braiding had left Sansa’s hair looking less smooth and sleek than it normally would.

“I’ll work on it tonight.” Dacey said, her tone polite but her expression waning as she craned her neck backwards and let it fall side by side, rocking her head to relieve some of the tension.

“Thank you, at least someone is helping me.” Lyli didn’t acknowledge what was basically a jab in the ribs. Lyli braided Arya’s hair at night, as well as Dacey’s and Lyanna’s – but never Sansa’s though she could see the red-head looking at her as if expecting her turn next. It would be a new thing.

In Sansa’s eyes she had always been a Bastard, not just a motherless child, but the worst kind of motherless child. The kind who wanted to steal your future, a promiscuous monster, bad luck in a dress. She had inherited that thinking from Lady Stark, and since she was tucked so tight under that wing there was little that Lyli could do to fix it. 

Without Lady Stark there, and Septa Mordane exhausted from travelling she was having to lean more on Dana and Lyli for assistance than she would like, despite the maids that travelled with them the two women were just as busy helping with meals and washing.

Getting her ready for bed, getting her prepared to travel in the morning, checking in on her. In the first week of travelling she had put up with nearly none of it, but realizing that she wasn’t that independent and needed some assistance she took the help when it came but with a sour attitude, Lyli found. 

The last time she had offered to braid Sansa’s hair had been two years ago. They were preparing for bed, her sister was sitting in front of the fire in the family room, her hair wet from the bath. She had approached her, the comb she had used in her own hair still in her hand and offered,  _ “Would you like me to plait your hair?”  _ Sansa had turned on her, her aristocratic features screwing up, little nose scrunching, mouth twisting she had spat,  _ “Don’t touch me, Bastard.” _

Lyli had not tried since then.

Like Dana had taught her, some things are fruitless, some opinions one cannot change. Though it saddened her, she grew more and more closer to the idea that Sansa was one of those people. No matter how much she loved her sister, to Sansa, she would always just be a Bastard.

“I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to go near your hair.” Lyli winced at the tone coming from Arya. The tension between them was growing to be insurmountable. It seemed to be a combination of travel restlessness, close quarters and changing tides. Sansa seemed to be ready at her tender age to plan for a future that was still some lengths away from arms reach. Arya had found a friend, at Winterfell Sansa had Jeyne Poole and Arya had Bran, but Lyanna was a different sort of friend. 

Compounding the confidence in herself that she didn’t have to be a Lady in the traditional sense. Even their wolves seemed to grow tired of each other, sensing the moods of their owners. Nymeria snapped at Lady constantly, causing the smaller wolf to snarl and growl until they were rolling in the mud, leaving the travel party to give the quarrelling wolves wide berth, with stares in disapproval from Roose Bolton.

“Shut up, Arya.” Sansa snapped. Lyli could feel the budding tension of a headache beginning at the base of her neck, yet another argument building between the two girls.

“I’m not the one who needs to shut up, all you speak about all day is  _ Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey..”  _ Her voice turned taunting. “Oh Joffrey My Prince, please marry me, look how pretty my braids are.” Lyanna smirked into her palm and Dacey knocked her in the shin with her foot. Sansa’s face flushed as red as her face.

“Don’t mock me. Tell her not to mock me.”

“Don’t mock your sister.” Dana, Septa Mordane and Lyli said all at once. Not that it did any good.

“I’ll stop mocking you when you stop whispering Joffrey’s name in your sleep, you know what they say about him don’t you?” Arya teased, Sansa flushed deeper – this time in anger.

“Spreading rumors about the Prince can be considered treason, you little pest.” She spat.

“Are they rumors if they’re true?” Arya said back, her little voice suddenly sounding a lot more like Lady Catelyn’s when she is in a mood, cool and sharp. “That he is a beast on two legs.”

“Shut up.”

“That he has the boys beaten in the yard when they best him.”

“Shut up, Arya.”

“That he whines like a girl and paints his lips.”

“Shut up you little horse faced brat.” Sansa jutted forward, hissing at her sister. Arya’s grey eyes went slate. “You’re just jealous because I might one day be Queen and you will be nothing but a girl who looks like a boy in disguise with nothing but your stupid wooden sword and your horseface to comfort you”

“I might have a horse face, but at least I have more personality than a rock. You might be pretty outside, but you’re rotten inside. And it’s starting to show. Maybe you and the Prince should be together after all.” The door to the carriage flung open as Sansa pushed it open, and stepped out. Large puddles were made in the marshy grass as she stomped her way toward the treeline, her face flushed, her steps determined.

“Lady Sansa!” Septa Mordane called out. Sansa did not turn around. “You are a cruel sister Lady Arya, go apologize to Sansa.” She tried next. Lyli could have predicted what was going to happen then.

“I’m not anymore cruel than a Septa who favors one sister over the other.” Arya leapt from the carriage next, storming in the opposite direction. Lyanna scurried after her. Dana gave her a look, it was a look she knew well, it meant  _ “Take care of it.” _

“I’ll go talk to Sansa if you go get Arya?” She proposed to Dacey as they climbed out themselves to go and attend to their siblings. She watched from the corner of her eye as Nymeria began to follow Arya, she eyed Ghost and whistled, the large white beast meandered over, she leant lent down to speak to him.

“Go after them, keep her out of trouble.” Ghost gave her a baleful look but followed behind Nymeria. He was the largest of the pack and was used to herding the children and their wolves with much practice from Rickon and Shaggydog. Lady was staring intensely at where Sansa had disappeared into the woods. Bran’s head resting on her stomach, his legs stretched over Summer, his eyes closed as a warmer, thick breeze sluggishly moved by. The guards began to follow and she waved them off, Sansa would need time to fume and rant.

It would be raining soon. Sansa’s figure was getting smaller as she walked deeper into the tree line.

At that moment, she thought nothing of it. But in the future, when she looked back on this moment – she would see it as ominous. Watching as her sisters red hair swayed being swallowed by the forest.

* * *

  
  


“You know, the last time I saw the Keep this full was the wedding of my sister.” 

Another whore tumbled out of the bed, taking the pillowcase with her, the slip of gold silk covering none of her spilling breasts as she gave him a wide smile, blue eyes blown wide. 

He gave her a dry smile. He watched as they filed from the room, their giggling and chittering leaving the room as an echo in the hallway he had just entered from. 

Willas turned his eyes from the bed as the deeply tanned lean man slid from the silk sheets, his body naked in the sun. He let his eyes fall to the wide archway and the people walking down below. 

The air was broken with soft salty breezes as the day progressed. The sun was beginning to set, it was beginning to cool. He was expected at dinner soon - but there was only so much of watching the King drink himself stupid and stumbling. Grandmother had given him a slanted glance when he announced he would not be attending to deal with other business, like she knew what he was doing - and she probably did. 

There was only so much of his own family he could take under the circumstances. None of his siblings had such responsibilities as he, and it showed. The journey to the Capitol had been long and arduous, with Olenna plotting, his father bumbling and Margaery and Loras preening and primping with their wide smiles. They had to be up to something as well but he was too exhausted to ask. 

Grandmother had a lot of ideas about the current state of the throne. Some of them optimistic, some of them pessimistic - a lot of them quietly shared with Willas in her whispering and hushed tones. She - like everyone else had her own opinions on who was worthy to sit on the Iron Throne, and who was not. Though they waffled back and forth on who that should be, one thing was certain - a Tyrell should be nearby. He had heard that enough. Hushed disdain about the Baratheons, the King and his brothers. She seemed though, to hold the most disdain for the Lannisters. She had scoffed the name  _ Tywin  _ more times than he could count. 

Grandmother had lots of ideas, and it wasn’t like she had anyone else to share them with. After all, his father was an oaf. 

As a child, he felt guilt at such thoughts. He had been a well enough father, there to guide him through all the moments he should have, but like his siblings - he had outgrown his Father far too fast. Olenna often called her son an oaf, and Willas had to agree. But there was something deeper there, a man who wished he had made different decisions, a man who could only see in the past. It did not do well to dwell on the past, but one would think for as much as he does it, Mace Tyrell would have learned something. 

Like when a King wasn’t fit. 

Willas had sat down the right of his father and watched as he made nice with the King, both of them with flushed red drunk cheeks laughing about the past as if the events were currently impacting the future. His mother had remained in High Garden with Garlan, but he knew she would be turning her nose up at the display. Much like Cersei Lannister had throughout the entire evening. 

If the King lived up to the rumors about him, Cersei Lannister did even more so. She was beautiful, that was true. She had long waved golden locks that were partially braided back behind her ears which were adorned with deep ruby and gold earrings. Her long neck was swan like and graceful and wrapped in golden chains that accented her deep crimson gown. Her face, while perfect, was like ice. Frozen in a single emotion - disdain. He had watched her stretch a smile across her face, the skin peeling back like clay to reveal a slanted smile at Margaery who was not discouraged, speaking eagerly and respectfully to the Queen about her gown and how happy she was to be in attendance. 

The whole thing was rather dry. 

“It felt much like it does now, oddly.” 

Willas was drawn back into the room. 

Back to the current moment in time where his friend, dressed in leggings and a loose tunic draped himself in the overstuffed chair across from him and took a deep swig of wine. His throat bobbing as he swallowed, brown skin gleaming in the sunlight, his hair - still as black as the day Willas met him - slicked back from many fingers running through it. The image of a satisfied man. It was hard to see how they were far apart in age. 

“Crowded?” Willas asked, he fingered the pipe in his lap before drawing it up to his lips. Taking a deep inhale of the herbs within he let his head fall back, the muscles in his neck relaxing. He handed the pipe to Oberyn who smiled at him. 

“Colder.” He took an inhale of the pipe. It was a blend that Oberyn had been making for him since his injury, it helped with the pain from his leg and the headaches that came with being a Tyrell. A convenient way for them to stay in touch as well.

They kept up regular correspondence to the surprised few that knew. Willas held no ill will toward the man who put his leg in its current condition, he would even go so far as to call the man a friend. Oberyn might have been, perhaps, one of the few good men left. Not good in that he was honor bound to do the right thing by his House or his Kin, not good in the way that made him shine like buffed gold. Good in a way that he was a man intent on balancing the world. Like scales were placed upon his shoulders he had suffered so many injustices, watched so many tragedies, he was trying to balance them again. Sometimes a wrong, did make a right. 

“I’ve not heard that.” Willas said, prompting him. While Oberyn had opened up to him about many things, even seeked advice on occasion, he had never opened up too deep about his sister. If her life were a song The Ballad of Elia Martell was a song too sad to sing on most occasions. A woman, a mother, a wife trapped in a a marriage gone cold, no matter the outcome of the Rebellion she was doomed. Locked in the maidenvault, some said. In chains, others said. No matter what words people uttered they were always with a softened, sad tone. Willas had never seen Princess Elia in the flesh. Some say she was the most beautiful woman to have lived, others say she was a sunken, hard eyed woman. He liked to think it was somewhere in the middle. 

“Well, to us it was cold. We had sailed here from Dorne where the heat is thick and hearty. Even at night when the air is coming from the great sea a person far enough away from it is not likely to shiver. Though it is the same sun, it always appears as though it is somehow shy here, always ducking behind clouds or seeming altogether too far away.” Oberyn’s voice was lulled, as though he had fallen into some kind of trance, taking Willas with him. 

“When we arrived, Elia was waiting covered in fabric, from the top of her head to her toes, her Septa was mortified.” Oberyn gave a dry chuckle. “She claimed she was cold, and I knew this to be true. But I also knew that she was apprehensive and scared. At night on the ship she would toss and turn until she would find me and Doran on the deck and tell us her fears. And we assured her. We told her it would all be okay, that the Prince is rumored to be a good man, and his Mother a gentle woman. That she will find fellowship here and if ever she wanted, we would come to rescue her. Like the Knights in her stories.” 

Oberyn’s face was the portrait of a man haunted. The sun shining on the plains of his face did not disappear the sadness that had overtaken it. Momentarily - in just that second - he looked all his age. 

“For her first weeks here she spent her nights covered in blankets. One would think it was as cold as the North. I would put hot stones at her feet to try and warm them, she took many hot baths, I know her husband must have thought her strange, laying in the bed under the covers, her long sleeves and shawls.” Willas could not imagine wearing such layers in this heat. “One night, Doran came to her. As she prepared for bed, the wedding still days to come - he asked her how her warm blooded husband might feel, with his dragon blood boiling under duvets.” 

“And she said?” Willas prompted. 

“She said that if his blood boiled then he should do well enough to keep her warm. She would not worry for a duvet after she was married.” It was like the sky had greatly captured Oberyn’s attention, his eyes rapt on the receding sun, clouds pink and orange in the sky. He could hear the distant sounds of the docks, the small folks walking below. 

“Did she?” He asked his friend, “worry for a duvet?” 

“Not for a time, no. But the cold always comes back, even on the warmest summer day we must remind ourselves to be grateful, as the cold is always just there, waiting for arrival.”

“They say winter is coming.” Willas smirked at his friend, watching to see the ripples of his expressions, the light going in and out of his eyes as he talked. 

“So I hear.” He said. Craning his neck back again, stretching it. 

“And bringing a Bastard with it, I hear.” 

“Really? Ned Stark’s Bastard. A sight to see I’m sure. Poor boy.” 

“A girl actually.” Willas corrected. Oberyn croaked out a dry laugh. 

“Bless her.” Sardonic, this time. 

“The Palace is an absolute frenzy preparing for Ned Stark, you should see them. The King is all but dancing.” Willas smirked. 

“Can he dance?” Oberyn asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. It forced a laugh from Willas. The laugh burst from his chest like the sun beneath the clouds. 

“I’ve missed you my friend.” Willas confessed. “But I still wonder what you’re doing here.” There was no question, and his mirth did not leave his voice, rather it was joined with curiosity. Oberyn had not stepped foot in the Red Keep since the death of his beloved sister, Doran hardly left the Water Gardens, and yet both of them were here. Like a black mark on otherwise clean parchment, marking the occasion as odd and irregular. Though they had yet to make their formal appearance. Doran still on his ship and Oberyn hiding out in a whorehouse like it was where a man of his standing belonged, amongst the naked, pouring his own wine. 

“Well, I’m here to celebrate the nameday of our King of course.” If he was any more like his father he might have just accepted that answer. Might have asked about his plans while he was here, would he be going to the fair? Looking for a young lady to whisk back to Dorne? 

Instead, he gave his friend a knowing glance. 

“I’m sure. Just a two Princes stepping away from the Kingdom to celebrate a man they abhor. No ulterior motives at all.” Oberyn gave him a toothy smile. 

“I speak true. I come to celebrate the Nameday of the King, represent my people, and a truth.” 

“A truth?” 

“My mother used to tell me all the tales and folkstories we are told come from a kernel of truth. That somewhere in the magic and the mystery there is a real story – a truth. That is what I’m here for.”

“And what folktales do you wish to decipher.”

“I wonder my friend,” Willas met eyes with the Prince, whose eyes were dark as night a small smile curling in the side of his lips, “If Mountains truly do ride.”

* * *

  
  
  


Her father was never one to tell war stories.

Her father kept the stories of his time at war to himself, he didn’t speak about the men he undoubtedly killed, the massacres he had seen or any great battles. She had no reference for what killing would be like.

He always said there was no glory in war, in fighting, in battle - that even if you won – you lost. He didn’t relish in the past or the swing of his sword. She always knew that from the way his face looked as they trooped to an execution.

The first time she had gone, she was twelve. Robb had been excited, Theon – still a scrawny boy – had been as well. But she had been weary. Her father hadn’t wanted her to go, but Dana insisted. Her mother figure had trooped alongside them as they walked up the hill where the man stood, quivering in his ties as two men held him still. Her father had explained that he was a rapist, and a murderer of children. A woman and small child were damaged and dead respectively down in the village because this man and his drink. He had denied taking the Black. There was only one option left. 

Her father had spoken to the man, asked if he had any last words as they lowered him to his knees, placing his head on the block. Her father had spoken the words, like he was inviting the power that was placed upon him as Warden of the North to give him strength, and then he carried out the sentence. His large broadsword had cut the man's head from his shoulders in one stroke, the head rolled a few feet and stopped, blood rushed from the remnants of the neck as the body went slack. Next to her, Robb’s breakfast joined the grass and Theon took a few stumbling steps back.

She took a step forward, and then another, and then another until she stood beside her Father’s shoulder as the men took grey sheets and wrapped the man's body.

“Did it hurt.” She had asked him. He had looked down his long nose at her, grey eyes serious, his mouth set in a frown.

“We can only hope that it didn’t.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point?”

“He tortured and killed a person, and we’ve killed him for it. Was the point for him just to be gone forever? Because he didn’t feel the pain they felt.” She said to him. Her Father stared at the grey sky, then back down at her.

“It is not about making them feel the same pain, it is about making sure that justice is served.”

“But it brings you pain.”

“It does.”

She didn’t think she would ever experience that pain, though she had trained with a sword, killed an animal and watched an execution. There is nothing that can prepare a person for the feeling of a kill. She remembers the first animal she killed, a small rabbit, the tip of her arrow had gone through it’s stomach and the thing had rolled. She had picked it up and cleaned it, the blood on her hands was warm and she had felt pride, because her Father had clapped her on the shoulder and Dana had praised her for catching dinner.

She had no idea that human blood would feel so different.

She didn’t know where the man had come from.

She could see how the scene had played out in front of her, her mind forming the steps that had to be taken to place them at exactly that spot, exactly that time, for exactly that ending. 

In the small clearing there was a log, where a strip of grey fabric was, she could picture how Sansa must have been sitting there, fiddling with the end of her hair as she mumbled angrily to herself as she was prone to do when she was angry. At one side of the clearing she could see a bustle of bushes with many of the ends snapped and the middle bent where the man must have come walking out from. He must have been watching her.

She could see where he had come from behind her, footprints tracked upon the mud. His feet were encased in soft boots that looked like they had been soaked through with water multiple times. He could have been a trapper, or a hunter, someone whose footsteps are trained to be light. Sansa wasn’t trained to look for danger, either. Growing up Dana had always told Lyli to listen for footfalls and those would seek to harm her, arming her with a small knife from the time she was eight. Telling her stories of girls who were dragged into the woods never seen again or a fate like Lyanna’s. Sansa was told stories of knights and princes – dreams of being a bride, what her wedding dress would feel like, of when she would be the Lady of her own house.

She could see waves in the leaves, deep gouges in the mud, from where the man had dragged Sansa from the log. She could see the imprint where her back had hit the ground, the leaves were pressed into the mud, the deep tracks in the leaves led to where the man, in a torn cloak, trousers and his worn boots. There was mud caked beneath her sisters fingernails.

Sansa’s hands had always been clean. She wasn’t one to join them for fights in the snow or tumbles in the mud, her nails stayed clean from days of harp lessons and embroidery, running her fingers down the spines of books. She had never seen Sansa have dirty hands.

Her hands were digging into the mud, mud caked underneath her fingernails. Her mouth was open but Lyli couldn’t hear a sound coming from it. She must have been screaming, though it was like the air around Lyli had gone stagnant except for the harsh breathing of  _ the man.  _ He breathed like a pig giving birth, harsh breaths bursting into the air, his breathing ragged. He was gripping ropes of red hair in one dirty, scarred hand.

It was like there was someone else moving her, an instinct taking over her. A palm that was her own gripped the hilt of her dagger. It had been a gift on her last nameday, it was light in her hand where the last time she practiced with it she had noticed it was heavy. Her footfalls were silent, and for a moment, she felt like Ghost, prowling across the wet ground silently.

He must not have heard her, his eyes leering down at Sansa who struggled beneath his grip, her mouth still open, her back arched as she wrenched from side to side. She watched from his back as his hand gripped her long red tresses tighter and he yanked her closer, she watched his free hand drift down to the belt around his trousers.

She didn’t feel the knife sliding into his neck, she didn’t even feel her hand move, what she did feel was the blood. Her knife jutted out the side of his neck, the dark handle nearly touching the base of his neck. She held it steady, the blood, dark and thick ran from his neck and down. She watched as it coated her hand as she pulled her hand free she felt the warm gush rush over her wrist.

She watched the man stumble back, grasping his neck, he fell back his neck arching, head digging into the dirt. A river pouring from his neck. His life blood leaving his body in thick gushes, a puddle forming. She wondered how long it would take for it to stop, if it would ever stop or if it would flood the world.

She looked down at her hand, the dagger still in her hand, coated in red, dripping in it.

“Justice.” She wondered out loud.

The world spun.

Then there was nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - FierceRadience is the reason these stories look so alive. I could not possibly do this without her. The amount of emails we send back and forth regarding these stories is amazing, and I'm so lucky to have such an attentive and wonderful Beta. All the snaps and claps to Fierce!
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always please leave a comment. We are currently working on Chapter Seven and want your opinions, I love hearing your thoughts and questions and feedback about the story. 
> 
> Hands and feet inside the ride, seatbelts on - enjoy!


	8. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

* * *

_ “We are consciousness examining and expressing itself so that it can become increasingly aware of its infinite capacity for being and evolving.”  
― Jay Woodman _

* * *

_ "My beloved Jaime.” _

It didn’t start well.

Tyrion should have known that the moment the letter landed itself on his desk on that bright morning that nothing good was going to come of it. He was too hungover, too tired, too curious to not just leave well enough alone. The seal had clearly been broken, someone’s eyes had seen this well before his. He saw his sisters handwriting. Her narrow, elegant script cramped on the scroll in front of her. He should have left well enough alone.

_ “I have been well, though my heart aches for you my days are passing the same. The children are fine, Joffrey is learning his sword arm and Tommen is taking lessons on the bow. You would be proud of Joffrey, he is impressing all the squires in the Yard.” _

There was no mention of Myrcella, and from Tyrion’s impression of Joffrey there was no possible way that had been impressing anyone with the wild swinging he did in the yard. Tyrion was no warrior. He had not even been one of the children who dreamed of riding horses into battle or pretended to face a foe, but he knew even from his limited experience and great imagination that by no means was Joffrey impressing anyone.

He had seen the boy sic more guards on the squires in the Yard and hold a crossbow to them then show any feats of impressive behavior. The most impressive thing about him was how loud he was able to screech for his trusty Dog. Tommen was even less so inclined. He had started lessons with the bow, but flinched every time he released and swung the bow and hit himself on more than one occasion, his time in the yard was now limited to lightly swinging a wooden practice sword like a toy and watching the birds circle of his head.

As far as Tyrion could see, the only normal child that Cersei had managed to produce was Myrcella. She was a small and quiet girl. He found himself watching her often at dinner, her cerulean eyes either on her lap or her plate where she picked at her food, he knew her brain was far away – probably planning her latest late night jaunt to the library. She sat through her lessons, greeted everyone properly and did her duty as a Princess in the daylight. Cersei didn’t seem to hold the same regard for her daughter though, which was odd to Tyrion.

He had always thought that motherhood was Cersei’s only redeeming quality.

As a youth she had been cruel and selfish, and as she aged that behavior did not get any better. When Joffrey was born, he saw for the first time, a maternal softness on her face. That softness seemed to shine the brightest for Joffrey, however.

“ _ I have thought only of our last conversation night after night. The words I said to you, the ones you said to me. I wonder how we will bandage this wound between us if we do not speak. I know you ache like me in the night, I know you long for me like I long for you – “ _

Tyrion rubbed his eyes again, a headache blooming behind his eyes like storm clouds.

There had always been a thought...

A small tingle in the back of his mind that wondered just how close Jaime and Cersei were.

From his first memories they were never far from each other, their closeness a thing of legend. Jaime originally having left behind his ability to inherit to protect his sister. The Kingslayer, loyal to no one but his golden haired twin and her children.

He had early memories of them. Memories of going to Jaime’s rooms in the middle of the night, scared of the dark, lonely and cold. Creaking open the door and seeing the two of them, blonde hair tangled, limbs entwined. He remembered Jaime’s dark jealousy at Rhaegar Targaryen, who seemed to capture Cersei’s interest in his onyx armor and bright princely manner.

He remembered the way his father had scoffed in disgust at Jaime’s stay through Cersei’s births. The way he was known to mouth off at the King in his sister's presence.

He also remembered him coming home.

A letter had arrived, it was short and addressed directly to their father. Noting only that he was coming home, and that he was coming home to stay. He was ready to take his place as heir. Tyrion had been curious in the beginning, but it was mixed with equal parts excitement. Jaime had always been a good brother to him, and a good companion. He had never made him feel small, despite his stature. He was always treated like an equal by his brother.

The day he arrived he rode through the gates on his black steed. His face had been a bleak mask. He had gone into the solar with their father and come out some hours later prepared to take on the task of being the next Warden of the West. The first few weeks back with Jaime he had asked near constantly, he wanted to know what caused the obvious fight between them. At first, his brother had been standoffish about it as the letter began to roll in from Cersei and then, almost overnight, he had become impassive. The letters went unopened, the seals uncracked. He became more and more himself, and something  _ more.  _ He spent time in the solar, the yard, training the soldiers and meeting with Lords and Ladies, asking Tyrion for his opinion on various matters, learning from their Father.

Over time, Tyrion stopped asking what happened between he and Cersei though large parts of him had still been abundantly curious about what happened, he had been able to forget it until he learned they were going to be face to face with their sister.

Now, he wished more than ever, he didn’t have to know what was going on between them.

“ _ I wake in the early mornings sometimes, my legs rubbing together, so fast as if to start a fire, my hands in my hair the way yours used to be. I miss you there. I miss your touch, just as I know you miss mine. Sometimes when I look at Joffrey, I see you, on his bad days I know that all he needs is his Father, a real father. Just as I need a real man. Do I haunt you dreams as you haunt mine? Come back to me Jaime. We will together stitch this broken heart.” _

His hangover headache had formed into a stress headache, and the nausea he was nursing now more than likely had nothing to do with the copious amounts of ale he had consumed the night before. He didn’t have the stomach to keep reading, at least at that moment so he rolled the scroll back up and thought on what to do with it. A part of him thought the best thing to do would be to throw it in the fire. But a larger part of him knew that would do nothing, the seal was broken and he knows Jaime had not brought any of the letters with him.

Someone knew.

Someone knew and someone wanted him to know that they knew and didn’t that just make him all the more nauseous.

“You look ill.” The voice in the door made him jump. His shaking hand pushed the letter down and he swallowed back the nausea that rolled up his throat. 

Jaime stood in the door, looking disgustingly refreshed in Tyrion’s opinion. His dark blonde hair was wet and pushed back from his face which was still lightly flushed from a bath.

“And you look disgustingly refreshed.” Tyrion worked to control his voice. Jaime strolled into the room as if a letter hadn’t just caused a fire. He picked an apple from a bowl of fruit and slid into an overstuffed chair across from the desk.

“Yes well some of us went to sleep at a decent hour. The festivities are set to begin in true tonight, so Father says.”

“What happens tonight?”

“The Dornish are said to step foot in the Keep this afternoon.”

Since arriving a week ago, the Dornish have yet to be seen besides their large ships at the docks. The two Princes who sailed across the sea had yet to step foot in the Keep they came to visit, which didn’t necessarily bode well for their time here. Their father, ever the strategist, had his own theories. A show of intimidation and defiance, he thought. Tywin had many thoughts on the perceived disrespect from the Dornish. Their vassals docked side to side, the ten enormous ships dwarfing the docks - shadowing them in billowing orange, red and yellow sails.

Tyrion thought differently. They had arrived ahead of schedule, and the Keep was filling up. They were more than likely biding their time for an opportunistic time to enter. And from his understanding, Doran Martell was in failing health – which could also contribute to his want to stay where he is comfortable.

The fact he came at all still puzzles.

And for some reason, does not bode well.

Rumors swelled that Prince Oberyn had spent some days at one of Baelish’s whorehouses when Willas Tyrell had gone to visit one. The Tyrell heir was not a man of gold and whores, that much was sure. Tyrion had spent the last week sharing great meals with him in the grand dining hall, he was honey haired and quietly speculated. He did not have the look of a man who publicly frequented a whorehouse for the whores. There had long been talk that despite the accident, he and Oberyn Martell had remained good friends. There was no one else in Westeros who could really claim that closeness with the Martell’s.

“Where did this information come from?” He asked. Their spies had not been able to obtain much information about the Dornish as they would have liked. There was something innately unsettling about them being there, docked in that large vessel, biding their time to exit.

“It’s all the maids can talk about. The men have filed out and are standing at the ready outside the ship.” The image made Tyrion’s blood cool. Doornish troops in their orange cloaks and shining armor, spears in hand lining the docks – a sight indeed.

“And to make our King all the more happier, the Stark’s are arriving.”

Tyrion snorted at that.

If there was a way for Robert Baratheon to be less subtle about his excitement about seeing his brother-in-arms he had yet to find it. He had sent out a scouting party to see how far they were, cleared large rooms for them and scheduled the largest welcoming feast for their arrival.

Unlike his siblings, he had never met Ned Stark. And for as much as he had heard about him, he was not necessarily keen to. The man sounded like an absolute bore. A man of so much noble honesty that he would risk head and heart. If there were a man made of gold, his name would be Eddard Stark. The Warden of the North was a man of myth and legend. Jaime had recalled him as a tall, long nosed man with brooding eyes and a poor sense of humor. Tywin had only gave choice words on the character of the man that was most anticipated,  _ “He is as they say.” _

Which could mean any number of things. They say he is noble, honest and true. They say he is distant and cold, they say he is fierce and distant. All of these, and in all the same, none of these things could be true. The stories of Eddard Stark were of battle, desperation and war. He wondered what a man like that could become in the icy cold of the North.

“The scouts say that it is Stark, his bannermen and a great hoard of his children. Including his Bastard.”

“His wife?”

“In the North with his heir.”

“The heir stayed behind?” Tyrion asked, Jaime poured watered down wine into his glass, Tyrion took a hearty sip, hoping that the wine would put out the fire burning behind his eyes.

“Yes. He’s brought along all his girls and only one boy.”

“The Bastard?”

“No, the Bastard is a girl.”

“How mysterious.”

“Indeed.” Tyrion said.

“Apparently this is the most excitement Robert Baratheon has shown since crushing the Dragon at the Trident.” Jaime gave him a familiar smirk.

“I’m sure our sister is thrilled.” Tyrion said, the words leaving his mouth, leaving him nauseous again. A great yawning pit opening in his stomach as the letter rolled into a scroll in his hand suddenly felt like lead, heavy and dragging.

“I’m sure.” Jaime gave an eye roll this time, his face becoming impassively distant.

The letter gave another heavy lurch in his palm, beating like a heart in his palm, feeling like blood rushing beneath the skin. He looked down at it, small and daunting rolled up in his hand.

“Speaking of our sister…”

* * *

Lyli resisted the urge to rub at her eyes like a sleepy child as they entered the city gates. Though she had all the reason to, it wasn’t like she had gotten much sleep for the duration of their march to Kings Landing, and now they were in some place that smelled of old food, sewage and sickly people. 

It was nothing like what she thought it would be. 

She looked at her surroundings through the small window on the carriage and stared upward at what seemed like a burning sky. She could feel Sansa’s eyes boring into the back of her head, her sister’s smaller pale hand clasped in her own locked on her lap.

Her smaller crimson haired sister was ever by her side. The two of them attached at the hip for most of the day and all through the night. There was not a way she could escape Sansa’s gaze these days. 

Since the man, in the woods.

Since Lyli had killed him.

She felt the dagger at her waist, hidden under the layers of skirt. She wondered if the amount of washing she was doing to the blade would soon ruin it; as it was doing nothing to wash away the feeling. That feeling that no matter how she cleaned it, or how often, the man’s blood would be forever infused in the blade, one with her for as long as she carried it.

She had done the right thing. 

  
  


Father had said, when he sat across from her on a rock and wiped the blood from her face with a scrap of cloth. Blood she did not know was there. She learned that day, if she struck a man in the right spot he would bleed like a great fountain. The man did that. His blood has soaked the ground, her hands, her face. Sansa was covered more than her, led down to bathe in the streams with Dana.

She learned a great many things they don’t teach one in the yard that day. A day which feels like both yesterday and years ago.

_ “Lyli, Lyli you saved your sister. It’s all right.” _

Her father had said that, over and over, as she stared unseeing into the trees. He had been the one to take the dagger from her hand when they rushed to her aid. Ghost had led them, snapping his jaws, salivating, his large paws all but shaking the ground as he thundered forward. Her father, Jory, GreatJon and Maege had followed. After that, it was like every face had passed her and she could not fathom why. Moments running together in time, bleeding into one image.

Her father had sat before her on a heavy log, wiping her face clean. He kept telling her that it was alright. As if she didn’t already know. 

She knew she had killed the man. 

His eyes would no longer open, he would no longer stride upon this plane; his existence was now smoke – gone with a rush of wind. The footmen had buried him in a shallow grave. Not far away from where his blood was becoming one with the earth, sinking down into the dirt, becoming perhaps in its next life a fruit bearing tree or living moss.

But he was no good man. 

The first night, she tried to cry. 

Sansa laid her head on her shoulder and wrapped arms around her, sobbing herself to sleep next to her. She had stroked her sister's hair and stared up at the canvas above, she tried to will the tears to her eyes.

She had taken a life, a person was gone. She tried to dredge up guilt. She peered deep into herself, peering into her soul, and found none. 

For days after she felt like nothing but a shell. While she had never laid with a man, her innocence in that way remained intact, in other ways it was severed forever. She would never know true innocence again. Neither would Sansa. Sansa who had cried so hard into the night that her eyes the next day were as red as her hair, bloodshot and swollen. She had ridden behind Lyli on her stallion, her arms wrapped so tight around that at times Lyli lost her breath. Her head buried in her sister's back. 

She pushed forward.

She could feel the party’s eyes on her as they travelled, watching her as she transitioned emotions. When she found that her eyes met theirs they looked at her in a way that made her insides feel like creek water, thick and boggy, muddy. As if she were a whole new person. The only ones who didn’t look at her in such a way were Maege and Dana. Maege had ridden up next to her as she trot forward with Sansa burrowed in her back. She had said nothing, just met her eyes. Her strong blues met Lyli’s amethyst, there was understanding there that she had not met elsewhere. Dacey too had shown her support, riding gently up next to her to squeeze her hand or sit close beside her during meal times, their shoulders brushing in solidarity under the harsh gaze of Septa Mordane.

She knew she should feel guilt about taking a life. When she thought of the man, of the things he had done, all that could form within her was boiling rage. Her sister was a  _ girl.  _ He was a man. He had her on the ground, she remembered seeing the ropes of her red hair wrapped in his hand. Her hair like the threads of her life, held in his hands. 

She dug for the guilt, all she found was rage. 

Dana and her Father spent more time than ever whispering to themselves, before Dana made her way to bed they would stand on the edge of camp, heads tucked together as they whispered furiously. Sometimes her hands would begin to move animatedly as they did when she got a fire under her. Lyli didn’t know what they were talking about, but she knew it had to do with her. 

Dana had shown her support in other ways. They never spoke about it, not really. The only words that she had said about it was  _ “The living before the dead.”  _ Lyli knew what she meant by that, though Dana had never said it before to her.  _ Move on. You have nothing to be guilty for.  _ There was no reason to wallow in the blood of a bad man. 

Though she and Sansa had never been close, she had always regarded Sansa as her sister. Even knowing that Sansa had - for the entirety of her life considered Lyli no more than her Father’s bastard. A girl who may one day take from her, steal from her, and tarnish her name if Septa Mordane is to be believed. But Lyli had always loved her.

She wondered if, in some sickening way, she had just proved herself to Sansa.

In the time spent traveling after meeting  _ the man,  _ Sansa had spent more time with Lyli than ever before. Clinging, truly. Dana encouraged it, Septa Mordane twisted her lips and Arya pouted about having to split their time. There was hardly a moment these days where Sansa was not clinging to her hand, tucked under her arm, or sitting nearby. Shoulder to shoulder.

Night after night she woke up with her sisters fiery red hair in her mouth. She pushed away from her sister to splash her face with cool water, washing the nightmares off her face and turning to snuggle Arya or Lyanna, or whomever took space on her small bed that night. In the morning she always woke with Sansa’s cornflower eyes on her, sometimes brimming with tears, sometimes just staring – unblinking. Her own nightmares still evident on her face. As Lyli went about her day, Sansa seemed there with her, haunting her every move like a ghost. Even Lady had followed her lead, Ghost had spent his day trying to shake his tiny follower but it was to no avail. 

The longer they travelled the more Sansa seemed to piece herself together, though the person she was before may not have been the person she was becoming now. The night after the attack, Lyli had accidentally intruded on a conversation between Dana and Sansa. It had been an odd sight, they did not spend much time together at Winterfell as Lady Catelyn disapproved of Dana. But they were sat together on the evening that Lyli had come in to collect her things to bathe. Dana looking Sansa deep in the eyes. 

She wondered what they spoke about.

Sansa had always been gentle and soft. Spending her days daydreaming of Prince’s and pretty dresses. She had always walked with quiet confidence. Since the attack, her sister had taken on a different walk. Her eyes often lingered on people, watching their movements. She tilted her head down and to the side, looking behind her without turning her head. Her walk was still confident, but had turned into a soft march. Her lips pressed into a thin line together. Her smiles were still there, gently curving her lips but they came fewer than before.

Above Lyli’s head a blue sky loomed. Like the sky anywhere else soft tufts of clouds bloomed across it, a bright sun loomed overhead. Below it, a foreign vision of life paused as the heavy footfalls of the horses stormed down the stony path. Passing her were men and women and children of all different looks, shapes and sizes. Smells of all sorts of varieties danced from vendor stations, she smelled the cooking of chicken and fish, along with an assortment of searing vegetables. Beyond those smells, was something much less pleasant.

Rotting fruit and vegetables seemed to be stored in wooden barrels every hundred feet or so, picked over by the population and animals tucked just behind stalls or alleyways. Children ran barefoot and nearly naked with bloodied knees and protruding rib bones. A boy stood watching as they stormed past, holding onto the half-eaten core of an apple with bare hands, dirt and grime smeared on his forehead. He was paying particular attention to the large four wolves which made a tight formation around the carriage, big heads swinging, tails down as they stalked silently next to their owners, hidden from the sun in the carriage.

They passed jewelers, blacksmiths, and tradesmen. Lines of people stood with smalls sacks of coins, staring both blankly and in awe as they passed. The smell of warming body odor and sweat steaming up from these larger groups of people. The stone buildings stood in clusters together, leaning upon each other like great tumbling towers. In the windows she could see many faces: women, men and children. Lines of clothes strung from one end of the structures to the other. She wondered if the people felt like rats in tunnels, crawling on top of each other, stamping on the others home, crawling from leaning pillar to another.

It was everything and nothing like what she thought it would be. The closer they got to the Keep, the more it seemed the population thinned out. The stones smoothed out beneath them as the horses and men trudged up the long winding path to the towering stone structure ahead. The homes stood tall and clean with large balconies and billowing curtains that wafted in the sea scented air. 

“I can’t even see the top.” Arya said, her little voice seeming to echo off of their small space, Sansa’s hand tightened in Lyli’s.

If she craned her head just right she could see Father leading them up, his banner men flanking him in a strong and tight V formation. Despite the heat that was barreling down on them he still wore his grey furs. In her chest pride swelled at the sight of him, his hair tied away from his face, long furs decorating him and the back of his warhorse. His long broadsword hanging across his back. He was a vision of the North. 

She looked down at her gown pooling in her lap, a plum so deep it was nearly black. Silk and gauzy tulle overlay pooling in her lap. The sleeves of the gown hung past her shoulders leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Her hair pulled back into a loose tail down her back to swing over her shoulder. On the gauzy cover of her dressed, small embroidered stars danced.

Beside her, Sansa was dressed in a satin blue. Matching her brilliant eyes. Her hair, which she had wanted plaited so bad on that fateful day, was tied back in a loose plait that hung between her shoulders. A simple few flowers braided into the mass. Arya was equally as beautiful as her sister, pouting a in grey dress with a white belt around her midsection, her thinner, shiny brown hair looped around her head in a crown of braids. The braids had taken over an hour with her sister’s squirming and Sansa’s clinging.

The winding path up to the Keep seemed to stretch on for ages. But as they grew closer she could make out greater and greater detail. A tall tower stood high in the sky, capped with a bell. Many rounded tops bloomed from the stone giant. Pointed arches seemed to kiss the glossy clouds that spread thin across the sky. The farther they travelled from the masses the more she smelled the air of sea, she could hear it, brushing up against the sides of the stone, waves crashing. From their vantage point she could see three large ships docked beside the Keep.

The largest of the three brandished burnt orange banners centered with a red sun which waved proudly in the sky.

“Who does that belong to?” Dana quizzed. Lyli threw an exhausted look at her but she didn’t seem to notice or mind, busy still knitting together thick twines of yarn to make blankets. “Your lessons never end, my dear. Even an old woman like me learns a new thing every day.”

“You’re not old.” Arya said, picking at her hair. Sansa gave her sister a huff and slapped her exploring hand away from her neat braids.

“Don’t do that. Lyli worked hard on those.” She chastised, though her voice was much gentler than it used to be when they argued. It no longer held the scathing bite that it had before, instead it was a gentle admonishment.

“The Dornish.” Lyli interrupted her sisters.

“The Dornish live in the far south of Westeros, and their head of family is Prince Doran Martell, his brother – Prince Oberyn is known as The Red Viper. They were able to keep their titles because of how long they were able to resist joining the Targaryen Empire.” She said. She turned to her sisters.

“So, if we are to meet them we are to address them as Prince instead of Lord or My King, like the others here.” She told them, as if they did not know. As if they had not been taught nothing but titles and mannerisms their whole lives. “The Dornish are said to be a kind people, but they are also a fierce people. Though it is said that Doran Martell is more a amiable man who prefer times of peace over times of war – “

“Who enjoys war?” Lyanna blurt out. 

Dana gave the young girl in navy blue a sardonic smile. Her lips, already drying under the heat, pursed themselves into a twisted smirk that curled the right half of her face.

“Men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably notice this chapter is shorter than the rest. It had to be trimmed so that it could come out in a timely manner. While I had originally planned for a bi-weekly update they are coming out more monthly and for that I apologize, but please know we are working as hard and as fast as we can to bring you quality chapters. FierceRadiance and I are committed to producing a well written and thought out story because you are all so lovely, and deserve that much. I will try to get my hassle on with chapter eight! Can't wait to hear your feedback! enjoy.
> 
> AND I PROMISE LYLI IS IN KINGSLANDING NEXT CHAPTER. PINKY PINKY PROMISE (and I never bring a pinky promise.)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

**____________________________________**

_**“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”  
― J.K. Rowling, [Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/41335427)** _

___________________________________

King Robert Baratheon looked nothing like Lyli thought he would. 

Hearing the stories, growing up she had pictured him as tall, broad shouldered with dark hair and the build of a warrior. Sometimes, when she and Dana were in Wintertown they would hear rumors of a man gone to seed - drunken, sullen and overweight. She had been raised though, to put little stock in rumors. However, after this sight - she might think twice about that. Perhaps there was benefit in taking note of the rumors... 

The man who stood before her was tall. In fact, he might have been one of the tallest men she had ever seen if he stood straight. Instead, his shoulders seemed to naturally fall in on themselves and drift toward the great weight that was his stomach. He seemed to strain against the golden silks he was wearing, his red cheeks had a sheen of sweat against them and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead. Greying at the temples and thinning on the top. 

If she did not know his age, she would think him to be at least ten years older than her father. He had deep set wrinkles in his forehead, his eyes were sunken and his beard and hair were streaked with dark grey. He carried a considerable amount of bulk about him, when he stood from his chair as they entered the banquet hall he had gripped the sides of his dining chair so hard his knuckled had gone white, he seemed to heave himself out of the chair to sweat his way through an introduction. 

Though complimentary, his speech upon their arrival to the feast had been made awkward by the glances from unfamiliar faces and the slight slur of the King’s speech. 

_ “The honorable Ned Stark, Eddard Stark.. Warden of North. A great warrior, father and leader. A brother to me in all but blood. It has been too long since you have been able to experience my hospitality. For you and yours I present the table of honor.”  _

It had been clearly rehearsed, and then forgotten as ale had idled his brain. His great arms swinging out wildly as if to show them in grand gesture, instead - as his arms had swung out he had wobbled like an unstead candlestick and his wife’s lips were pursed tight. After the speech he had looked down at Father, a large and flushed smile on his face. Her father had graced him with a tight polite smile. After an awkward moment, Lyli realized belatedly that the King had been trying to make some sort of impression on her Father. 

Her father had taken all of it politely. He thanked King Robert graciously and gave him a strong nod before they all sat down. The table they sat at was seated directly in front of the Royal Family. 

Next to the King sat the Queen. She was buried in crimson fabric and golden jewelry. Her beauty was striking. She had high and graceful cheekbones and her green eyes were dark like gems under the candled chandeliers. Her dark red painted lips remained slightly pursed as she looked them over. She had given them something like a smile, her lips curling upwards in the motion of a smile but it seemed empty. She was all the great beauty that all the stories said she was, and more. A golden lioness draped in chains of sparkling gold and shimmering diamonds, a large ruby sat at her throat and another on her middle finger on her right hand. Her high backed chair seemed to only accentuate the clout that surrounded her. 

Beside the Queen, Prince Joffrey. 

Of all the swooning Sansa had done in the beginning of their travels she had expected no less than she got. Prince Joffrey was tall, lean and blonde. His burnished gold hair coiled on top of his head and he shared the same eyes as his mother. And the same empty smile. Though she tried not to stare, he was in her direct line of sight. He mostly picked at his food, she did not see him bring one full bite to his lips. Instead they formed a crooked smirk on his face, his eyes surveyed the groups of tables below him in a way that left Lyli unsettled. 

Beside him, another boy. Younger than all three of the children as his cheeks were still filled with baby fat, his hair was a lighter shade of blonde and he had given them a large and bright smile. He seemed to have skipped dinner all together and was enjoying only a plate of desserts. Something about the way he dug his fork into the icing and smiled at the servant who placed yet another small slice of cake upon his plate made Lyli fight back and aching smile. It reminded her of Rickon, and his wiley ways. He had often gotten dessert for dinner from sheer willpower alone. 

At the end of the table, the Princess. Whereas Joffrey and Tommen seemed to have inherited strictly from their mother. Princess Myrcella had a head of thick dark blonde hair that was in a braid similar to Sansa’s. Long and loose it was thrown over her shoulder in an almost careless way, all the strands tightly pulled into the braid and the ends tied with a crimson ribbon. Her blue eyes had been downcast but she had given them a small smile before sitting and locking eyes on her plate. She seemed to be the only child who took anything from their father, her cerulean eyes matching Robert’s - whose still shone brightly despite the surrounded bloodshot whites of his eyes.

  
  


The table they were seated at was decorated in a dark gold cloth and was nearly bowing in the middle with food. A large roast pheasant sat at its center and around it bowls of food overflowed, greens, potatoes, brown bread, beans and more. They had taken their seats under the King’s gaze and waited for the King to take his first bite before they dug into their own. Next to her, in a delicate cornflower blue gown edged with white lace Sansa looked ever the elegant Lady. Her long hair twisted into an intricate braid that swung over her shoulder. She delicately ate at her vegetables as her eyes darted around. 

“Where is the dwarf?” Arya asked. Lyli resisted the urge to sink her face into her hands at her younger sister. Arya was shifting uncomfortably in her navy dress, swinging her head around, looking too and fro. The braid that Lyli had tediously wrapped around her head was already beginning to come undone. 

“Be polite.” Dana warned quietly, wiping her mouth delicately with a napkin. 

“There.” Sansa said, lightly, almost under her breath. She jerked her head to the right. In a move that was less than subtle they all turned toward the table that was just to the right of the Royal table. The head of the table was severe man, with razor sharp cheek bones and narrowed eyes. His hair, though greying, was still a distant shade of blonde. He sat so straight in his chair as to almost blend in with it. His doublet was buttoned with shining gold and the rich fabric was the color of a rose from Lady Catelyn’s garden. The two chairs on either side of him where filled. 

On his left, a dwarf. He was nothing like the stories said. Along the King’s Road the men had said that the dwarf was like a walking monster. Disfigured in the way that his legs were of such different sizes that he walked with a large walking boot. That his arms were so swollen and large that they weighed him down. That his head was so disfigured it caused the Ladys to go fainting around the castle. As she gazed upon him, she found that he was quite handsome. Not in the traditional way, like the knights in Sansa’s stories, he had no burly chest, muscled arms or rakish smile. Instead, he had a sharp jawline, a narrow and fine nose and tufts of softly curling burnished gold hair. He too was in a doublet, sized to fit him in dark crimson with dark damask print upon it. He was not disfigured in any way besides his height and his eyes - mismatched upon his face - no monster in her sight. Just a short man. 

“He’s barely a dwarf.” Arya said, with her mouth full. A piece of bread leaving her mouth and landing on Lyli’s plate. She stared down at the bite in equal parts disgust and amusement. No shining kingdom would change her Arya, tables of food would not impress her, and a man simply too short was not dwarf enough for her. It was as if they were in the dining hall in Winterfell, Arya unfazed by their situation. 

Underneath the table, she felt Dana give the girl a swat on her lower back. Arya gave her a pouting look, Dana looked unimpressed. 

She glanced to the right side of the severe man, and startled when she made eye contact. The man she stared upon might have been from one of Sansa’s tales. His doublet was dark golden in color, decorated heavily. His strong jaw was dusted with stubble and his dark green eyes were narrowed upon her. She dropped her head. 

“That is the Queen’s family. Her father, Lord Tywin Lannister. Her brother, heir to The Westerlands Ser Jaime and Tyrion.” Dana said. 

“They are twins indeed.” Was all Lyli could think to say, still feeling a burning gaze on her, she swirled the glass of watered wine lightly before setting it down, looking down at her plate. She had gotten mostly vegetables, skipping over the meat option as nervousness turned her stomach to knots. She speared a green bean and a small potato and brought them to her lips. 

“Who is that?” Arya asked, and then flinched when Sansa tapped her under the table. 

“That is the King’s Family.” At a table perpendicular to theirs, another severe looking man sat. He was a cutting figure, extremely tall even while sat. He had dark, wispy hair on his head that seemed to be receding in the same way of the King’s. His jaw was stubborn and broad. He wore a dark doublet with shining gold buttons. Beside him, the opposite. A tall man, but much more tan. Dark hair curled slightly in soft tufts on his head and bright blue eyes stared around the room.

“Lord Stannis Baratheon and Lord Renly Baratheon.” 

With their tables seated so close, the stark differences between them stood strong like black and white - or in this case, crimson and gold. The Queen’s family was golden and dynamic, with their shining hair and golden trinkets. The King’s family was sea and earth. Tan and dark, blue eyes radiating from their faces. Lyli glances up at the Royal table once more, the multies of gold heads, she looked away. 

As the dinner commenced, she continued to glance around discreetly, but kept her eyes down. She could not help but feel like there were a million eyes upon her. Her face tingling in a way that she knew she must be flushed a dark red. At some point, the dancing began as empty bowls of dinner were replaced with stacks of cakes and bowls of fruit. She had, in her mind's eye, pictured the King trying to lead the Queen in a dance, but when she last looked at them the Queen was staring plainly out, her hand wrapped around her goblet of wine and the King was red in the face from drink and loading more food upon his plate. The servant behind him could not seem to fill his goblet fast enough, the drink running down his mouth at times, wetting his beard. 

Lyli reached a pale hand out and plucked an apple tart from a tray and set it on her plate, before she could duck into it another pale hand plucked it from her plate. She grinned over at her flame haired sister, who was smiling at her, her eyes crinkling in the corner. 

“You’re quiet.” Sansa observed. Lyli stole a piece of her tarte back with the heavy flatware. 

“I’m taking it in.” She admitted to her sister. Who gave her a single nod in agreement. 

“It’s beautiful, but much different than I thought it would be.” Sansa agreed. The opulence was there without the illustriousness of the tales. 

“Eddard Stark.” The voice that came behind. Lyli turned to face the sound.

The woman that stood before them was old, her skin was gently folding and wrinkling. She was very small, perhaps just a bit taller than Arya. her shoulders were slightly haunched and she was covered in a dark velvet green dress, the long sleeves coming up over her hands which were folded together on top of the head of an oaken walking stick. Despite her visible age, it seemed that her eyes were younger than all of them together. Her dark brown eyes seemed to be dancing in the candlelight that the dining hall provided. Behind her two identical men in armor stood.

Her father rose from his seat. Giving the woman in front of them a short and stately bow. 

“Lady Olenna.” 

“Well everyone was quite in the frenzy for your arrival.” She said, her voice was stronger than one would think. Strong and sound. “It’s been a long time since the North has ventured this far.” 

“That it has.” Her Father said, “But we would not miss this name day for the King. He had insisted we come, it had been too long since we saw each other.” 

“Yes, a friend so close he calls you his brother.” She says, something in her tone narrowed Lyli’s eyes. It was cloying, a smile tugged at the older womans face. 

“Indeed.” Was all her Father said. “Lady Olenna may I introduce my family, My son Brandon, and my daughters, Lylianna, Sansa and Arya.” 

“This is not the whole brood, I take it?” She draws. 

“No my heir, Robb is with his mother and my youngest Rickon as well.” 

“Three girls, either you are blessed or cursed.” Olenna. Olenna Tyrell, The Dowager Lady of Highgarden. the name formed in the back of Lyli’s mind, a name learned sometime between kneading dough in the kitchens and walking to the freefolk. More lessons that Dana had beat into her head. 

“We say that we are blessed.” 

Olenna Tyrell’s eyes flicked over them, looking them all up and down. Lyli met her eyes as the woman finished scrutinizing her. In a minute moment the older womans eyes narrowed and then widened again before relaxing into the same position they were before. Lyli broke their eye contact to adjust her skirts, feeling a prickling sensation in her scalp. 

“Blessed Indeed.” 

* * *

  
  


“I’m having some odd flashbacks from my childhood.” Tyrion took a deep sip from his goblet, prompting another side glare from their father.

Despite obvious differences – Tyrion had his point. Jaime was also brought back to the grand dinners of his youth, both at Casterly Rock and in the Red Keep, under a different regime.

On the few occasions the Old Dragon hosted dinners such as these, he sat at the same table where Robert Baratheon sat now. Jaime had a distinct memory of his hand, always so pale the veins on them standing out so plainly, reaching for a golden goblet. His nails had been long and brittle. Dark shadows rimmed the skin around his nails, darkened from keeping his hands so close to the flames. The same went for his palms, shrunken and calloused.

The hand that gripped the goblet now was meaty, red and sweating. Jaime was surprised he was able to grip it at all from the way he was swaying ominously in the chair that seemed two sizes too small for his large and bulging frame. He had lost even more of his gusto, which Jaime didn’t seem to think possible since the years that he had been gone from King’s Landing. His hair had receded farther and thinned around his shoulders. His beard was unruly and streaked with grey.

Jaime was careful not to meet the eyes he could feel boring holes in him. He had done his duty, bowed to her as he was bid due to her position, but he never met her eyes. And as his eyes had stared at his shining boots he could not help the smirk that had curled about his mouth. Despite not seeing her eyes he knew her stare was venomous.

She had been relentless since he had arrived, scroll after scroll had appeared. It seemed every corner he turned she was there with a gaggle of handmaidens and ladies in waiting.

Tyrion was instrumental in his avoidance. In the face of what his brother had learned, Tyrion seemed to take things in stride. Of course there had been the revulsion that had appeared first. They had sat in the study, doors tightly closed, shoulder to shoulder as so others would not hear as Jaime tried to explain himself. 

There was nothing to explain really, no words that could untangle the web that he and Cersei had wove. After revulsion came curiosity, another thing that Jaime could not answer for. He did not know why he did what he did, he could explain part of it as manipulation, his sisters fingers weaving that web like wool through a loom. But he knew that would be a disservice. He was just as responsible as she.

_ “Do you love him?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Your son.” _

_ “He’s not my son.” _

Truths that spilled that day between them were things he never thought he would voice out loud. For so long the secret had been just he and Cersei, and while he was in Casterly Rock it had just been him, wading in the dark murky waters of their past, avoiding their letters and piecing together his sanity. Despite the horror of what he had done, he had felt like the water had lowered from his waist to his ankles speaking to Tyrion.

His brother had taken it all in with revulsion, curiosity, anger and resignation. He knew that now that he was involved, he couldn’t become un-involved. Another person in the web. The scroll had landed in Tyrion’s hands from someone, a mystery they had yet to unravel.

Tyrion had lamented the stupidity of their sister the longer they went without answers as to who sent the scroll. Cersei always felt too comfortable, too secure, then she got reckless. Even in her and Jaime’s final years as bedmates (he did not yet know what else to call them, besides vile or disgraceful.) she seemed to get too comfortable in her roll. Forgetting the lessons their father taught them that comfort was the predecessor to deceit or death. 

The days leading up to Ned Stark’s arrival they had batted back and forth about who it could have been. Jaime’s gold was on Littlefinger, whose spies and whores knew just about all there was to know going about in the Keep. With how many of the whores Robert at paraded in and out there was no telling. Tyrion however, suspected a different such spy. He did not know much about Varys, the silk wrapped man was a known eunuch and was known for his spies and for knowing all, but how he did it was still beyond anyone.

Jaime broke from his reverie at the sound of glass breaking. Joffrey was sitting with a pouting smirk, beside him a maid bustled and scooped up the glass of a fallen cup. It was a trick he did often, when he felt that too many eyes left him he was known to make a mess of things.

The boy had grown since he had been away, as was expected but Jaime was equal parts disturbed and disappointed that it seemed like his behavior had only gotten worse. He had hoped that with age perhaps Joffrey would grow out of the tantrums and tumultuous behavior. It had been wishful thinking, he was the same pitiful child he had always been, spoiled and churlish. Except now, he was older - and with age came rage and entitlement, he knew what he was. A Prince. He knew all that he would have some day, and took every opportunity to remind everyone around him that he would one day be the Keeper of the Keys, The King.

“What an odd specimen.” Tyrion said, from his left. Jaime took a deep swig of his wine and gave a smile to Margaery Tyrell, who had been staring at him for some time. His father was pushing him toward her and a few others. But he had mentioned Margaery more than once. It had been hinted in no uncertain terms that he would be asking her to dance tonight. As many people entered their third round of dancing he wondered when he would get the glare that would prompt him to do so.

“The Tyrell girl?” He asked lightly.

“No, but I do think if she stares any harder we should just have a bedding ceremony.” Jaime smirked at his brother and his smirk deepened when he watched his father’s face curl up in annoyance at them.

“I’m talking of the Stark Bastard.” Jaime swiveled his eyes around to the large grand table that sat before the King’s dais. Ned Stark was standing as were many people at this point, milling about and chatting as the music led many into a deep dance. Stannis Baratheon was speaking to him, both of them with relatively relaxed posture. Beside Ned was his son, dark of hair and eyes, his father’s large hand rested on his back.

Seated at the table seemingly playing with their desserts were the three girls. Jaime had been tucked in an alcove with Tyrion and Bronn when they had arrived and been introduced earlier in the day but the distance had not done the Bastard justice.

She was of medium height, with heavy waves of dark hair. Her skin was pale and lightly freckled. She was fine boned, even more so than her red-haired sister. Her nose was long and narrow and sat above full lips. Her hair fell into her eyes despite the clip that swept it back. Her dark purple gown accentuated the slope of her breasts and the delicacy of her collar bone. She set down her fork and nudged her red-haired sister with her elbow and gave her a smile.

“I suppose those rumors of Ashara Dayne hold some weight.” Tyrion said. 

The rumors of Ashara Dayne had ebbed and flowed for as long as the Bastard had been alive and Ned Stark had ridden back with her and her Dornish maid. Tywin had always placed little stock in them, for as long as they had known of the Bastard, her existence was of no importance except as a smear of ink on the record of Eddard Stark. 

For the longest of times, they had thought the Bastard a boy, as rumors coming from the North were slow and sluggish and Ned Stark kept the entire affair tightly sealed. But she had been introduced that afternoon, standing in front of the King in a gown colored deep plum, her narrow nose and wide eyes stared up at the King from her courtesy, the color so jarring to see once again in the room with the Iron Throne. 

He stared at her as she let her young brother lead her out for a dance on the floor. The way she smiled brightly down at him, the way her hair thick and dark fell over her dainty features, a picture of Rhaella came to mind. He had seen her during his time in the Kingsguard, but the picture that came to him was from a much earlier age. Cersei away at dancing lessons and him watching his mother and the Queen have tea. 

He remembered the way Rhaella’s smile had shone upon his mother, despite the dark circles under her sallow eyes, she looked happy. Her fine boned hand held a tea cup. He had gone up to his mother, who at the time was swollen with child, and asked if he could go play, his mother had given him a tired smile and he felt another hand on him. A feeling he could remember then, Queen Rhaella’s hand brushed through his mop of golden hair and told his mother he was a beautiful boy.

Later, when his mother was nothing but bones in the ground and he stood in that white cloak, he still remembered that gentle smile. Even as she seemed to sink in on herself, the weight of sadness folded her down. All of the abuse she had suffered was layered upon her skin, pale and sallow, she was a phantom of her former self. Her skin pale and sickly as she would stare out the balcony to the sea as if she wanted to throw herself in it.

From the corner of his eye he saw his Father, quiet and contemplative, staring just as plainly as they were. His eyes, while green like theirs, seemed almost iced over in their contemplation. Their eyes met and turned back to the girl being led in a dance by her brother. Long onyx hair swinging as she lithely dipped under her brother’s arm despite the height difference between them. Her smile was gentle, seeming to blossom as her younger brother flushed bright and gave her another little twirl. 

The Bastard swung herself in a circle and let herself be led by her smaller brother, her smile familiar, her lavender eyes light and near unnatural in this light.

“That’s no Dayne.” He whispered. 

* * *

The gardens in the Red Keep were much like she expected. Full to bursting with floral life from all over the world. Giant red roses from Higharden grew thorny and proud. Gaillardia from Pentos were bright orange and yellow even in the dark of the evening. Carnations of white, yellow and pink sprouted from the many types of bushes. Dana had weaved her way through the garden until she found what she had been looking for. 

The stone bench underneath her made for a good workstation as she wove the crowns together. Looking down at her hands as she did so made her feel older than she normally felt. Despite her age, she had always felt younger than she was. All the moons and years that had passed seemed to do little on her, her joints moved as though they were well oiled and she hadn’t lost any of her speed - but her hands showed her true age. 

Wrinkled around the nail, and freckled with spots her hands were covered in the shapes of scars and calluses, formed after years of work. One scar in particular always stood out ot her. Looking upon her hands now it was just lightly there, faded more and more from the time she had received it. Three half moon shapes on outside of her pointer finger. When she had first gotten the small wounds they had bled gently, and she had been surprised at them. 

Lyanna, in those days, had not seemed strong enough to squeeze as hard as she did. But as the days grew closer to the birth it seemed that she had a renewed strength. Even the strength to get up and walk, pacing from the window to the bed, knowing what was coming. The day the contracting came, her stomach having grown hard, convulsing closer and closer - she had gripped Dana’s hand. Her nails, though brittle, were long and sharp. She had been surprised on that day, to look down and see her own hands bleeding from the strength of Lyanna. Half moon shapes scraped onto the back of her palms from her nails. There had been a determination on that face that had been unseen before. 

Lyanna had been so weak, but for two days, the sun rose and set and she labored - the middle of her brow tight together with grit as she bore the pain. 

Lyli had the grit of her mother. Others around her may think they recognize it as the sternness of the North. The days that had faded since she had killed the prowler had etched a raw adamance on her face. She had trudged back into the camp after Sansa, who had been escorted white faced and silently weeping back to her tent where she was taken care of by her Septa. Lyli, in her riding leggings and tunic, had trooped back in after her Father. Her blade was sheathed at her waist, the only sign that she had bled a man dry were the flecks of blood dried on her leggings, and the deep crimson stain slowly drying brown on her sleeve.

Dana had watched her carefully, waiting to see if she began to despair with herself, waiting to see if she fell victim to guilt - but it seemed that the more the days that passed that more the girl she saw as her own held her head up higher. 

While Lyli had inherited her grit from her mother, she had also inherited her sensitivity from her Father. Rhaegar, before his mind wandered down the paths of prophecies and dragons. In the short time they had spent together, when the madness seemed to have cleared from him he had a gentle way about him. When he rode away, it was left to Lyanna to tell her the tales of him playing his harp for the less than fortunate and the gentle way he held her hand. The way he lamented the war and despised the fighting. Though he was a good warrior, the fighting never suited him. 

All her life, Dana had watched the two sides of her war. She wondered often if there was a side that would win out. In her youth she thought Rhaegar’s sensitivity would take a greater shining, as she became friends with every animal in the forest, learned her harp, and cared for her siblings despite the glare of Catelyn hanging over her. 

When she left for Bear Island, and became a fighter in ernst, parts of Lyanna came through, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. That fierce wrinkle between the eyes, lips pursed tight and fierce strength on her face. It seemed however, that the scales always balanced with her. 

A pride had swelled in Dana when Ned had introduced his daughters to the King. 

_ “This is my eldest daughter Sansa, my youngest daughter Arya and this is my daughter Lylianna Snow.”  _

Perhaps Lyli had not seen it, the way that heads had perked up when her name was said. But Dana had, from every alcove and balcony, eyes peering down every nose at her. Yet, she stared forward eyes up toward the Iron Throne after she had come up from her perfect curtsy. In that moment, Dana had been struck. With her long hair curling down her back, silver floral clips in her hair and fringe above her deep set, pale lavender eyes she looked the image of her father.

Her heart had leapt into her throat, sure that everyone would see what she was seeing. In her deep violet gown, she was a vision of her parents. A perfect mix of the two, her narrow nose and full lips from her father, dark hair and pale skin from her mother. For all the world to see, a secret that bound her lips and soul together gave a gentle smile to her youngest sister and took the arm of her gentler, red-headed sister, a girl she had killed for, and began the walk to their rooms. 

She had seen some of the eyes looking down at them, peering at them. 

She shaved the thick stems of the chrysanthemums. They were in a fine array of colors but she had gone for a muted few, a cornflower blue, white and a pink. Her tanned hands twisted them with ivy and baby’s breath. 

“Quite the crown.” The voice that spoke was rich, washing over the garden like warmed sugar. She placed the crown on the stone bench beside her and stood to give a proper curtsy. Her grey skirts dusted the ground as she did so. The man who sat in front of her was in an ornate chair, 

The wood was rich and bejeweled, pierced suns carved into the arms and the back of the chair. Behind the chair a tall, dark skinned man stood, one hand on the handle of the push chair, one hand on a monstrous spear. 

Doran Martell.

The man in question was tall. She knew this despite his seated position, his legs were long and his feet were in large leather sandals. He wore an opulent silk robe of burnt orange, the colors of the setting sun melting on the sleeves. A bronze circlet of a snake swallowing its tail sat upon his brow. He had golden skin and thick brows, a head of raven dark hair that was lightly grey at the temples. His hands were the same as hers - she noticed. Though larger, they were scarred and calloused. For a man of his age, he looked remarkably youthful. Especially when he graced her with a slight smile, and light lines framed around his eyes. His eyes were dark, but in the firelit light of the garden they seemed to sparkle. 

“Thank you My Lord.” She said. He gave her a gesture with his hand, as if he were wafting smoke, his hand so gently breaking through the air. She sat again. The Prince of Dorne sat in his chair before her with a slightly crooked, yet gentle smile on his face. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen crowns as such, my Septa used to make them for me while I was at the Water Gardens.” In her heart, a pang. Her home - so far from where she was now. There were days when she didn’t think of the way she missed the warm sea scented air, or the fine grains of sand or the smells of the spices in the streets. This was not one of those days. 

She too had spent many a day at the Water Garden, following her aunt there on many an occasion. Her aunt and mentor had worked in the Water Garden, teaching the children to read and write, weaving together flower crowns for the bare foot children who ran about. She remembered how the cool flower scented water felt on her skin and what it was like to be surrounded by others like her, basking in the sun and wearing innocence on her skin like a shield. 

“Mine as well.” She admitted. She placed one finished crown in her basket, and reached for another stalk. 

“Are you braiding these for your young ward?” He asked her, his large hands folded in his lap. 

“All three of the girls, actually.” She corrected. She knew she more than likely should adjust her tone regarding who she was speaking to, but she could not help the rigid tone that flowed from her mouth. The girls had turned in for the night, when she left them they were tucked into their beds, three identical down feather beds, thick duvets tucked around them and a fire roaring. Despite the warmer air, a stiff breeze blew off the ocean. She had sat in the corner, rocking in her chair and bringing together her wool to make warm shawls for the Winter until she was sure they were sleeping. She then took her basket and made her way to the gardens, torch in hand. Despite the exhaustion that was settling in her bones, she had felt restless. 

“I’ve heard rumor of you.” He said, wheeling all the closer. 

She tucked ivy underneath a thick stem and began the plait. “You have?” 

“Yes, a tale so odd that when it first spread across the Kingdom we all thought it to be lies. Eddard Stark, the most noble of men, riding across westeros with a Bastard baby and a Dornish woman. At first, the rumors that came said that the Dornish woman was the mother. Then they said that the Dornish woman was an escaped noblewoman whose servant gave birth to the Bastard - but then, he arrived at Winterfell. The rumors washed upon my shores to say a babe too pale, too delicate to be born of a Dornish woman. Of course, it has been many years. As it is with rumors there is always a hint of the truth behind the clouds.” She finished the next crown and laid it next to it’s twin. 

“You are the person in all of Westeros besides Ned Stark, who knows the Mother of his Bastard.” It was a fact. The way he said it, as if he was mentioning that the sky was blue or that the sea was deep. It was only a confidence in the truth that made him speak so. 

“It is the honor of my life to serve the House Stark.” It was a practiced answer. She had been saying it for years, since she was trekked on a horse, feeding goats milk to a lavender eye’d babe she had whispered it to herself. She had said it under her breath when people stared too closely at her ward, she had prayed it when the girl was marred with pocks sickness. 

“I’m sure. How do they treat Bastards in the North?” His question could have been interpreted as rude if his tone was not so politely inquiring. 

“Lylianna is treated well. She is loved by her family and treasured by the community.” It was not a lie. Those in Wintertown had become so familiar with her that they called her by name, she had assisted in enough of birth’s with Dana and brought bread and blankets to the cold and hungry. The Free Folk thought her all but one of their own, allowing her to intermingle in their ranks and know their customs. She was loved by her brothers, and cared about by her sister’s - though Sansa’s affection had come later rather than sooner. Lady Catelyn had a withering eye for her, but kept her malice as much to a minimum as she could. 

“Lylianna, such a beautiful name.” He mused. “Named after his sister I imagine, she also takes after her aunt.” 

Dana hummed in agreement. 

“Lord Stark wanted to honor his Sister.” 

“It appears he has.” Doran’s voice was rich in timbre and deeply accented. “I look forward to getting to know more of your story.” He spoke with a tone of finality. 

“My story, My Lord?” 

“How one such as yourself came to be welcome into the House Stark.” The large dark skinned man came and took the handles of the chair. “I wish you the best in your plaiting. They look lovely.” Was his final comment as he was turned and wheeled away, the glinting of the spear strapped to the man's back all she saw as she watched him be swallowed by the garden. 

Disappearing into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's in KL!!! Yay!! 
> 
> As always great and many thanks to FierceRadiance who makes the world go around. Without her my head would spin off my shoulders and yall would never get a chapter! I am working on writing ahead so that our Chapter waits wont be so long but to be honest with you guys both Fierce and I work full time jobs and do this as often as we can and taking the time is super important to us to make sure the Chapter is perfect. 
> 
> So I hope you all enjoy! Let us know what you think!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story that was previously "Honey" 
> 
> Also I do not own any of these characters or ASOIAF or GOT! I am just making some silly stories out of someone else's ideas!


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